Sophia Holmes and the Scandal in Belgravia
by Dralice99
Summary: Book 9 Decent cases appear to have dried up at Baker Street. With Moriarty on the run, who knows how Sophie is going to respond when a familiar face pops back onto the scene?
1. Chapter One - Scandal in Belgravia I

Recap

We get back to Baker Street to find the door slightly ajar and dad and I both push past John to check it out.

"Oh I'll pay then, don't worry," John calls after us, but we ignore him.

"Ooh dear!" I hear Mrs Hudson say as we climb the stairs two at a time. "Thumbs!" The door to the kitchen closes as we turn the corner on the stairs.

"The door was ... the door was ..." I hear someone pant, before a loud thud. Client.

Chapter One

I set out the dining chair so that it's in the usual position while John struggles to heave the man from the kitchen and onto the chair. Dad is pacing in front of the sofa.

"Hm," the man groans as John eases into the chair, grimacing under our client's weight. "Where am I?"

"You're in 221B Baker Street," John tells him gently. "Who are you?"

"Phil," he replies, almost as if he's in a daze. "Phil Becket. Is Sherlock Holmes here?"

"Yes," dad says, walking over to the fire.

"I saw something you might be interested in," he says and I walk over.

"Of course you do," I say. "You clearly aren't a reporter, but our recent coverage has caught your attention."

"So tell us from the start," dad says sternly. "Don't be boring."

"I was on my way to a business meeting - somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I doubt you'd know it - and my car broke down."

"What time was this?" John asks, digging around on the dining room table for his notepad.

"Sometime around noon, I should imagine," he replies. "I tried to restart the engine, but it wasn't happening, so I got out to look under the bonnet. I'm no mechanic, I'd no idea what I was looking for, so I began to look around - checking for traffic or what have you so I could ask for help. I saw someone standing in the field beside the road, but he was too far away -"

"Describe this field," dad says.

"I dunno," Becket shrugs. "Like any other field. I think it might have had a river at the bottom. Anyway, this guy was looking over the river at something in the sky, some birds I think, so I didn't bother him. I got back in the car to try and start it again, but it backfired." Becket starts to shake slightly. "I looked back over to see if the guy had heard, but I could see him lying on the ground. I got back out again, and went to see if he was alright, but when I got to him I could see he was dead."

"Did you get close enough to see the wound?" I ask, but he shakes his head.

"We'll take the case," dad says. "I trust you've told the police?"

"Yes," Becket confirms. "Just after it happened."

"Then knowing the speed of reaction of most police forces, they'll set up tomorrow morning," dad says, thinking out loud before turning around and pointing to Becket.

"You can go," he says, and spins around to face John and I. "And we'll check the scene tomorrow, but for now," he says, gently steering me towards the bedroom, "you need to get some sleep."

"I'm fine!" I argue.

"You solved a case today, pretty much single handedly - you need rest." Sighing, I wish John a 'goodnight' before trudging off to bed.


	2. Chapter Two - Scandal in Belgravia II

Dad wakes me up at five o'clock.

"It's too early!" I protest, before reluctantly sitting up and taking in his appearance. "You're clearly not coming, why do I?"

"We discussed this yesterday," dad says. "We all agreed that I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven."

"Was this before I went to school," I question, "or during?" Dad hesitates for a moment.

"You might have been at school."

"And John? He only came back from Dublin yesterday afternoon."

"It's hardly my fault you weren't listening," he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me out of bed so that I land on the floor with a thump.

"I still don't see any point in me going," I say to dad a little while later. "We already know most of what happened."

"Yes, but there's still some points we're missing," he argues.

"Surely John can get them!" He looks at me, an eyebrow raised. "Fine," I sigh, grabbing my coat and slipping a few of the essentials back into my pockets and picking up my laptop. "I'll call you on this, make sure you answer!"

"You ready?" John asks, re-entering the room, his coat on.

"Yep," I smile and follow him out.

An hour later, we arrive at the crime scene and, to my dismay, the police have already arrived. As the taxi pulls over, a young officer comes over.

"I'm afraid this area is out of bounds at the moment pending a murder enquirery," he tells us, looking as though he's trying to disguise some excitement. Obviously his first murder case.

"Can we speak to the inspector, please," John says.

"Of course sir," he replies before bounding away. I watch from inside the cab as he goes over to the inspector and announces us. The inspector nods and turns around, beginning to walk over to us. John takes this as a sign to get out and opens the door.

"Sherlock Holmes," the inspector says.

"Sophia Holmes," I correct him, shaking his hand. "His daughter." I open the lid of my computer before looking back at him. "Are you set up for Wi-Fi?"

"Er yes," he responds, gesturing to the young officer to find the code. "Mr Holmes couldn't make it then?"

"Oh no, far too busy," I lie swiftly.

"Suppose he must be," he says thoughtfully. "Sorry, the names Carter. Detective Inspector Carter. I've seen you in the paper, haven't I? You're 'the woman', aren't you?"

"Yes," I reply, nodding. "Aren't tabloid nicknames wonderful."

"Oh yes," he laughs and I return a fake smile.

"Do you have a cause of death yet?" I ask.

"Blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument," Carter replies as the officer returns, handing me a slip of paper.

"Thanks," I say, typing the short code in. "Just give me a second." I press the call button and wait a moment for him to answer before handing it over to John. "Do you mind if I have a look around?"

"Knock yourself out," he says. "My boys have already bagged up a load of stuff, so I doubt there's anything left."

"And I sincerely doubt you've found everything," I say as dad appears on the computer screen. "You break my laptop, Watson and it'll be your body they're bringing out of this field."

I start walking down towards the lake, where the evidence cards have been set out. According to Becket, the victim had been looking over at the river - or just above it - so I stand facing it. Then I imagine the car backfiring and turn around. The blow came then, in those few seconds. What could have done it?

John's walking towards the river with the laptop and Carter, so I walk on ahead to check it out for myself. Bending down, I sift through the reeds and find an interesting mud pattern. Following it down, I find a boomerang. Of course. The man was standing, watching for his boomerang to return. The car backfires, he turns, the boomerang comes back and hits him on the back of the head before falling into the river.

"When did we agree that?" John questions, squatting down just as I stand up.

"We agreed it yesterday, dad repeats our earlier conversation. "Stop! Closer." John frowns and spins my laptop around so we can see dad again.

"I wasn't even at home yesterday," John protests. "I was in Dublin."

"Well, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening," dad replies and I hear a doorbell ring behind him. "SHUT UP!" he shouts at it.

"D'you just carry on talking when we're away?" John asks.

"Yes," I say.

"I don't know," dad says at the same time as me. "How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired."

John sighs and stands up, turning the laptop around so dad can see Phil's car.

"It's there," he points out.

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?" dad confirms.

"Yeah," John says, swinging the laptop back around. "And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That's gotta be an eight at least."

"See, if you'd come down with us, you'd have solved it already," I say as dad leans back in his chair to think. Carter joins us as we walk up towards the road.

"You've got two more minutes," he says, "then I want to know more about the driver."

"Oh, forget him," dad says, waving a dissmissive hand. "He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

"I think he's a suspect!" Carter replies, leaning over us to talk.

"Pass me over," dad says irritabley.

"All right, but there's a Mute button and I will use it," John warns and tilts my laptop towards Carter.

"Up a bit!" Dad cries. "I'm not talking from down here!"

"Okay, just take it, take it," John says, practically thrusting it at the DI.

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective?" Dad says, quick fire. "Fair play?!"

"He's trying to be clever," Carter argues. "It's over-confidence."

"Did you see him?" I say, sighing. "Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy - and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!"

"Go to the stream," dad says, in realisation.

"What's in the stream?" Carter asks.

"Go and see." Carter hands me back my laptop and as I look down at the screen, I see Mrs Hudson coming into our flat, backed by two men in suits.

"Sherlock!" she calls. "You weren't answering your doorbell!"

"His room's through the back," one of the men say, gesturing to kitchen. "Get him some clothes."

"Who the hell are you?" Dad demands, sounding almost offended.

"Sorry, Mr Holmes," he apologises. "You're coming with us." His polietness seems to suggest he's not a dangerous assassin, but that's the only thing I can determine, seeing as though he's hidden behind dad's figure. Then, however, he reaches towards the laptop and closes the lid so we lose the picture.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John calls, just noticing what was happening. "What's happening?" He reaches over me and starts slamming my keyboard.

"No!" I protest. "You'll hurt him!"

"Him?" John questions, smirking slightly.

"It," I reply quickly. "I meant 'it'." I bite my lip and hide my face behind my hair.

"Doctor Watson, Miss Holmes?" the officer says, coming back over, a phone pressed to his ear.

"Yeah," John says, still smirking slightly

"It's for you."

"Okay, thanks." Still distracted with the computer, he holds his hand out for the phone. I spin around, noticing the helicopter coming to land in the field.

"I think he means the helicopter," I say. Thinking quickly, I begin to piece things together. Polietness of well dressed men, yet demanding. No expense spared with a helicopter. I think I know where we're going.


	3. Chapter Three - Scandal in Belgravia III

I'm right.

The helicopter lands a little while later in the garden of Buckingham Palace, and I'm helped out by an escort dressed in a suit which must have cost at least five hundred pounds. He then shows us in through the backdoor, along an enormous hall decorated with ornate walls and crystal chandeliers. John stops to take it all in and I must admit it's slightly impressive, but I follow our escorts gesture into a smaller room, which contains two sofas and a small round table between them. On the table is a pile of clothes and shoes because behind them sits dad still wrapped in his sheet. He looks calmly across at us, and shrugs at our confusion before looking away. I lead us into the room and sit beside dad, and John sits down on the other side of me. I can see him trying to hold back a laugh and distracting himself by looking around. I take in dad's appearance before frowning.

"Are you wearing any pants?" I question, and John looks over.

"No," dad replies and I raise an eyebrow.

"Okay." We exchange a look before all three of us burst out laughing.

"We're at Buckingham Palace," John says, trying to collect himself, "fine. Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray." I laugh as my eyes lands on the ashtray in front. I bet very few people know about this. "What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John questions, shaking his head. "Seriously, what?"

"I don't know," dad admits.

"Here to see the Queen?" John questions sarcastically. At that moment, Mycroft walks in from the hall.

"Oh, apparently yes," I laugh, and the boys join in. Mycroft sighs, looking exasperated.

"Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?"

"We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I think Sophie is the only one which is actually grown up in our house, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft," dad says, all signs of humour now gone.

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" Mycroft questions. "I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent," dad says lightly and I nod in agreement as John stares at us, looking startled.

"Time to move on, then," Mycroft urges, bending over and picking the clothes up and off of the table before offering them to dad. He looks at them, uninterested, and Mycroft sighs. "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation." His tone changes, and he turns stern. "Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."

"What for?" dad shrugs.

"Your client," Mycroft replies and dad stands up.

"And my client is?"

"Illustrious ..." says the Equerry, walking in, " ... in the extreme." John pulls me up, his military training kicking in. "And remaining - I have to inform you - entirely anonymous." He looks across at Mycroft and smiles. "Mycroft!" he greets him.

"Harry," uncle responds, walking over and shaking the equerry's hand.

"May I just apologise for the state of my little brother and the manners of my niece?

"Full-time occupation, I imagine," Harry laughs and we scowl at him. "And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Hello, yes," John says tightly, as if he was still speaking to a commander as they shake hands.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

"Your employer?" John questions.

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch."

"Thank you!" John replies, looking around with a smug look. I'm just slightly shocked he's written it up so quickly.

"Miss Sophia Holmes, from what I hear you're a credit to your uncle." I smile falsely and nod my head in thanks. "And Mr Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," dad says and steps towards Mycroft. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He looks round at the equerry. "Good morning." Dad starts to walk out, but Mycroft steps on the trailing sheet, causing it to fall. I grimace, but luckily dad grasps at it before it falls below his waist.

"This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft hisses. "Grow up."

"Get off my sheet!" Dad says through gritted teeth, his back still turned.

"Or what?" Mycroft challenges.

"Or I'll just walk away," dad says.

"I'll let you," Mycroft finishes.

"Children, please," I say, rolling my eyes, though I'm enjoying the performance. "Not here."

"Who. Is. My. Client?" Dad hisses, his words almost indistinguishable.

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," Mycroft replies. "You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake ..." he pauses, trying to get his anger at dad under control before continuing, " ... put your clothes on!" Noticing that he doesn't have much more choice, dad spins around and marches towards the table and picks up the pile of clothes.

"You'll find a restroom down the hall and to your left," the equerry says as John and I exchange weary looks. Ignoring him, dad stalks out of the room and down the hall. "Would you care for some tea? I can have some brought in if you wish."

"Yes, thank you," John says polietly and I sigh. The equerry stands and follows dad out, leaving us under the stare of Mycroft.

"How is school Sophia?" he questions after a moment.

"Yesterday I went on a drama trip and witnessed and solved a murder. So yeah, things are starting to get more interesting."

"I was speaking to an old collegue of mine the other night," he starts. "He runs an all girls school in Dulwich which has an A to A* result percentage of 98%." He looks up at me. "I put your name down for next term."

"You have to be joking," I scoff. "Dulwich is a good hours drive without traffic."

"I'm perfectly serious," Mycroft replies. "And they board. It'll do you some good and boost your pitiful grades."

"I don't need good grades to be a consulting detective," I argue. "I already have all I need."

"Ah yes," he smirks. "You want to follow in your father's footsteps. How lovely. Unfortunately, consulting does not pay the bills. You'll need a proper job, and therefore a proper education."

"She's perfectly alright as she is Mycroft," dad argues, stepping back into the room. "You have no right to meddle in our affairs."

"I was simply offering her a better start," Mycroft returns. "Girls come out of there as politicians and lawyers. How many state schools can say they have the same result?" The conversation ends as the equerry comes back in with another man.

"Not interrupting anything, I hope," he says, placing the teapot on the table as the other man places down five teacups before leaving.

"Not at all," Mycroft responds, but sends us a 'we're not finished here' glance as he reaches for the teapot. "I'll be mother."

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," dad says pointedly. Mycroft glares at him, but doesn't bite.

"My employer has a problem," the equerry starts.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen." Mycroft smirks slightly.

"Why?" I ask, still fired up about the school debate. "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to us?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Miss Holmes?"

"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy," dad responds.

"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust," Mycroft says.

"You don't trust your own Secret Service?" John replies.

"Naturally not," Mycroft frowns. "They all spy on people for money." I hold back a small smile. He has a point.

"I do think we have a timetable," the equerry says, urging us along.

"Yes, of course." Mycroft opens his suitcase and hands us over a glossy picture of a woman. My heart skips a beat as I recognise the woman, but then falters slightly as I look across to see dad's expressionless face. He's deleted her from his memories. She's alive, but he doesn't remember her. It takes all of my physical and mental strength not to start crying.

"What do you know about this woman?" Mycroft asks, and I try to clear my mind so I can focus. Their relationship happened during a time after a partically bad dispute with Mycroft, so it's unlikely he knows her and even if he did, it seems he's also forgotton her.

"Nothing whatsoever," dad replies carelessly. I tense slightly, but unnoticibley.

"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft scolds as I pretend to get a better look at the picture and of her. "She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia," dad reminds him dully. "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman," Mycroft says, and I tense. I can't reveal I know her.

"Professionally?" John questions.

"There are many names for what she does," Mycroft explains. "She prefers dominatrix." I feel sick.

"Dominatrix," I repeat softly.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft fires back. "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," I reply. I hold his gaze for a moment before he decides to move on.

"She provides - shall we say - recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it." He takes more photos from his briefcase and hands them to dad. I can see at a glance that they're from her website and what I see is a side of my mother I never wanted to see.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs."

"You're very quick, Mr Holmes," the equerry compliments.

"Hardly a difficult deduction," dad replies. "Photographs of whom?"

"A person of significance to my employer," the equerry replies. "We'd prefer not to say any more at this time." Dad glares at him, clearly annoyed, and puts the photos down on the table.

"You can't tell us anything?" I ask.

"I can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft says as John takes a sip from his teacup. "A young female person." Oh that's narrowed it down considerabley. I think I know who it is. Mycroft looks uncomfortable, sensing that even John has managed to work out who this 'young female' is.

"How many photographs?" Dad asks.

"A considerable number, apparently," Mycroft answers.

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes, they do," Mycroft confirms.

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now," I say, and our flatmates arm drops quickly from its raised position.

"Can you help us, Mr Holmes?" the equerry asks.

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case?" I ask, frowning.

"Pay her, now and in full," dad continues. "As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten'." I take this as my cue to reach for my coat.

"She doesn't want anything," Mycroft says, and I stop, now interested. "She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour."

"Oh, a power play," dad smiles, getting excited. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?

"Sherlock ..." John scolds and dad reaches for his own coat.

"Where is she?" I ask.

"Uh, in London currently. She's staying ...

"Text me the details," dad interrupts, picking up his coat and walking towards the door. "I'll be in touch by the end of the day." I stand up with the others and join dad at his side.

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" the equerry asks.

"No," dad says, turning back around, "I think we'll have the photographs."

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think." My eyes narrow slightly at thr remark of doubt, so they flit across his appearance.

His position would mean that he is above the dog duties, but the course, ginger hairs which dust the bottom half of his trousers suggest that he still volunteers to care for them, therefore suggesting he is a dog lover. The way he was holding the photographs a moment ago (his thumb and little finger below, the other three fingers on top) implies that he's an accomplished equestrian riding English, as that hand position would be the correct way of holding the reins. From his postion on the sofa, it's clear he sleeps on the left hand side of the bed, as most people will choose which side of a bench or sofa according to which side they're most comfortable. His hands are unstained and not shaking, his teeth are also unstained, so he doesn't smoke. However his duties would require carrying a cigarette lighter due to the Royal Familys rather controversial habbit. I've also noticed that he blinks considerabley less than most, average people which suggests that either he's an alien (not improbable, but unlikely), a keen reader or uses the computer a lot. Due to the fact that he was brought up in a public school implies that he's a keen reader.

Once I've finished I look up and across to Mycroft.

"I'll need some equipment, of course," I say.

"Anything you require," Mycroft answers. "I'll have it sent to ...

"Can I have a box of matches?" dad interrupts, looking past Mycroft so he's looking at the equerry as he speaks.

"I'm sorry?" he questions tightly.

"Or your cigarette lighter," dad shrugs. "Either will do." He holds out his hand expectantly.

"I don't smoke."

"No," dad shakes his head, "I know you don't, but your employer does." After a moment of confused and awkward silence, the equerry reaches into his pocket and hands the lighter to dad.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes," the equerry says solemly.

"I'm not the Commonwealth," is dads response as he takes the lighter and slips it into his pocket before walking away. I follow behind him, but John stays behind for a moment.

"And that's as modest as he gets," I hear John say and a smile twitches at my lips. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Laters!"


	4. Chapter Four - Scandal in Belgravia IV

I get a text from Mycroft almost as soon as we get outside.

No. 44

Belgravia

Belgravia, just a short walk from here. From the looks of it, dad's going to go home first but I won't go with him.

"Sherlock," I say. "Lestrade's just texted me - they want us down at the Yard. Shall I tell him we're busy." The lie rolls so easily off my tongue that I almost feel guilty.

"No, go down and check it out yourself," he says. "I'm sure you can handle it."

"Okay," I agree. "I'll see you later." I let them take the first taxi that pulls up and wait a moment before beginning my walk to Belgravia.

It doesn't take me long. The road is lined with tall, white houses and the whole place just stinks of money. She's obviously done well for herself in her ... business. I count the houses as I walk down the street, my pulse speeding up slightly the closer I get to her house. 40 ... 41 ... 42 ... 43 ...

44.

It looks identical to the other houses, nothing in particular stands out about it. It still hasn't sunken in that behind these doors is my mother. My mother.

I have to steady my breathing before I climb the steps and press the button for the intercom.

"Hello?" It's a female voice which greets me, but not my mums. I look up at the camera and smile, debating whether or not to put on an act. If I know my mother, she would be expecting us, but it's whether or not she told her staff.

"Hi," I say. "My name's Sophia, Sophia Holmes. I believe Miss Adler was expecting me."

"Yeah, of course," she says, buzzing me in. "Come in." I smile slightly at the young woman with ginger hair who is dressed similarly to me. I can't believe I was so close to her just a few weeks ago. Back when we were investigating the 'Speckled Blonde' as John calls it, we were just five doors away. Small world. "Would you like a drink while you wait?" she asks me as she directs me into a large living room. "Miss Adler is upstairs getting ready at the moment."

"Coffee please," I reply. "White, two sugars please." The maid nods and turns and heads back out of the room while I sit myself down on the cream couch.

Looking around, it's clear that mum hasn't had any other, serious relationships since she left us. There are very few pictures and a mirror hangs over the fireplace and most of the surfaces are either made of glass or oak. There's almost nothing which can be deducted about this room which was just how mum used to be. Dad always used to say that his girls had a superpower which meant he couldn't deduce us.

For the first time in forever, I miss not being in a family. My palms grow sweaty as the emotion I've kept under lock and key for several years now wriggles loose. I try to keep it compressed, but I can't. I'm seeing my mother.

"She's in the lounge," the maid says, just outside the door. I regain my relaxed, schoolgirl posture on the couch as she comes in with my coffee, but I start to shake slightly as someone else enters the room behind her. When her eyes find me, they widen slightly.

"That'll be all Kate, thanks," she says. From her accent, I can tell she's spent most of her time away in Australia, but it hasn't changed the soft tone in which she used to use with me over a decade ago. Kate, the maid, leaves us alone and mum comes over to me.

"My little girl ...?" she questions, her voice breaking slightly as I get to my feet and she caresses a brown curl from my face.

"Mummy," I choke, finally snapping. I let the tears flow freely as she embraces me tightly. All my childlike love for her - all the sentiment - is let go. I'm like a four year old girl again.

"I've missed you so much," she says, talking into my hair before pulling away slightly. "Sophia, please know that what I did, I did to protect you." I wipe away my tears and look at her, smiling weakly.

"I know," I say. "But just one word - anything - to let me know that you were alive."

"I'm sorry baby," she says, stroking my hair. "I was going to, honestly I was, but I couldn't risk it."

"I know," I repeat and clear my throat. "But you're here now. Judging by the fact that you were upstairs 'getting ready', I assume you knew Sherlock was coming." Mum smiled for a moment before replying.

"I have my sources," she says before checking over my face and appearance. "You're just like your father."

"Do your sources have anything to do with your business?" I ask her, smiling in response to her compliment. She pauses for a second, looking pained.

"Sophie -"

"No, I get it," I say, stepping back. "You have your reasons."

"I use it as a source of finding information," she admits. "Gaining a bit of leaverage. It's nothing more, I swear."

"You don't have to explain anything," I say softly. "But 'dominatrix', seriously?"

"I like to misbehave," she smiles, but then her face turns serious. "Your father will be here soon. He won't let you see me again."

"I'll talk him out of it," I say confidently.

"Sophie, he won't understand -"

"It doesn't matter," I say. "I have my mother back. Nothing's going to stop me from seeing you again."

"I know," she says, but her tone is different. I frown, confused, and I don't react quick enough to knock away the needle which she stabs into my arm.

"What is this?" I ask, feeling tired.

"Hush now," she says, catching me as my knees buckle. "It's alright." I hear her call for Kate as she lowers me onto the couch, but then, I fall into unconciousness.


	5. Chapter Five - Scandal in Belgravia IV

A shrill ringing wakes me up, and I sit up and puke into a well placed bucket beside the bed. I let out a groan as the room blurs before me, making it impossible for me to work out where I am. I can hear something else against the noise of what only can be a fire alarm - footsteps. My limbs tighten as I try to move them, but I get nowhere. The drug I must have been injected with a temporary paraletic. So I just have to hope that it's just a drill.

I close my eyes again, the drug making me feel woozy and uncoordinated, but almost as soon as I do, I feel two hands grab both of my arm and haul me back into a seated position.

"Sorry Miss Holmes," someone says. The voice is accented, but I can't focus enough to identify which of the million accents that he's speaking with. "You're coming with us." The hands on my arms tighten as they lift me off of the unfamiliar bed. "Ms Adler is downstairs," the voice says again. "And for god sake, someone turn that damn alarm off." I blink quickly, trying to get my eyes to focus as I'm lifted up and supported on the shoulders of two men. The name they said is familiar ... Ms Adler ... Ms Adler ... MS ADLER!

I'm at my mothers house, I remember now. She was the one who injected me with the drug and took me upstairs to this room. As they carry me out, my mind starts working again. I saw something, what did I see? The bedroom was small, certainly not the master bedroom, however there were family pictures. Not many people, especially my mother, puts family pictures in the guest bedroom, which means I was lying in my own. My mother has kept a room ready for me. She still loves me.

My feet drag the ground slightly as we start the descent down the stairs. The alarm is getting louder, however it soon stops after a few gunshots from up ahead. I can see John at the bottom of the stairs, watching calmly as they bring me down. The man on my left raises his own pistol as we reach the bottom of the stairs, and John puts his hands up.

"Thank you," John says.

"Mr Watson," says the accented man - I now recognise it as American - stepping forward. "For your sake stay quiet." The two men let go of me and push me towards John, who catches me. I canhear John asking if I'm alright - if they hurt me - but I steady my breathing as I concentrate on what's being said on the other side of the door.

"Thank you," I hear dad say. "On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." I close my eyes in disbelief. She clearly didn't look up at my bedroom, or towards the door, meaning I'm not her priority. I can't believe I fell for her trick. "Really hope you don't have a baby in here." He pauses for a moment, having obviously found the safe. "Hmm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used - that's quite clearly the three - but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday - no disrespect but clearly you were born in the eighties; the eight's barely used, so ..."

"I'd tell you the code right now," I hear mother - I mean Irene - say, "but you know what? I already have. Think." One of the men grabs me as another struggles with John. I don't have enough strength to fight back as the American pushes past us both, his gun raised and pointed towards dad. He seems to be sporting a cut on his cheek, clearly his way of getting in, but otherwise he's unharmed. At the moment. Mycroft must have simply forgotten to tell us that there was a group of CIA trained professional killers on the case as well.

"Hands behind your head," the American says before turning to Irene. "On the floor. Keep it still." The man holding onto me throws me to the floor beside the sofa before walking Irene over to where I stand as John is also brought beside me.

"Sorry, Sherlock," John apologises. I don't have the strength to speak. I feel sick again. Dad raises his own hands before the American looks back around at Irene.

"Ms Adler, on the floor." The man, clearly assuming I'm safe to be left alone, moves back over to Irene and pushes her down onto her knees. She seems to be naked, apart from dads coat. What happened whilst I was asleep? I feel the cold metal of a pistol pressed against my neck, and I raise my head to look at dad.

"Don't you want me on the floor too?" Dad asks sarcastically.

"No, sir," the American says. "I want you to open the safe."

"American," dad says, noticing the accent. "Interesting. Why would you care?"

"Sir, the safe, now, please." The American demands. I feel Irene looking at me out of the corner of her eye, but I don't look at her. Not after what she did to me.

"I don't know the code," dad says.

"We've been listening," the American tells him. "She said she told you."

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't."

"I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr Holmes."

"For God's sake," John cries. "She's the one who knows the code. Ask her."

"Yes, sir," the American replies. "She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."

"Mr Holmes doesn't ..." Irene tries, but the American interrupts.

"Shut up. One more word out of you - just one - and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship." I see a glimmer of emotion cross dads face as this is said and I have some hope. "Mr Archer. At the count of three, shoot Miss Holmes."

"What?" I manage to say.

"I don't have the code," dad says, sounding worried and I cower down as i feel the muzzle of Archer's gun against the back of my neck, cocking it.

"One." I close my eyes and breath in and out slowly. If I'm going to die here, I'm going to go with some dignity, so I sit back up.

"I don't know the code." His voice shakes and I open my eyes to stare at him pleadingly.

"Two."

"She didn't tell me," he begs. "I don't know it!"

"I'm prepared to believe you any second now." He averts his gaze from me as he looks to Irene for help. Please. I see her bow her head and dad's eyes widen in realisation. Seriously?

"Three."

"No, stop!" Dad cries, and the American holds up his free hand to stop Archer as I let out a sigh of relief. He'll only be able to do this if he remembers her, though. He'll only be able to do this if he lets his walls down. I watch him closely as he turns, lowering his hands from their raised position by his head and enters a number - I can't see which. The sensation in my legs, however, is beginning to come back, as is my strength. Whatever was in that drug seems to be wearing off and I know dad won't let those photos go without a fight, so I'll need it. Dad punches another number in. Very slowly, he finishes the sequence. I smile slightly, and I see Irene do the same.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," the American says. "Open it, please." Dad twists the button and I narrow my eyes. It's very likely to be booby trapped, and I see dad turning slightly to check this. She bows her head with a small jerk and dad turns back to the safe.

"Vatican cameos," dad says urgently, and I drop to the floor, grabbing and pulling John so he lands beside me. Dad opens the safe and ducks down as the tripwire pulls the trigger of a silencer which fires a bullet and hits Archer in the chest. I take the pistol from Archer's hand as John pulls out his own before checking him over. Frozen by shock, the American allows dad to take his pistol and smacks it across his face, causing him to drop to the floor, unconscious. Irene spins around on her knees and elbows her guard in the groin and he crumples to the floor in pain as she takes his pistol and stands up, aiming the gun at him.

"D'you mind?" Dad asks polietly.

"Not at all," Irene replies as her guard tries to get up again, and she does the same as dad, also knocking her guard unconscious. Using the distraction, dad reaches in and takes something out.

"He's dead," John says, standing up.

"Thank you?" Irene says, helping me to stand and checks me over. "You remembered."

"Remembered?" John questions.

"I'm flattered," Irene continues, ignoring John as I shrug away from her.

"Don't be," dad says.

"Flattered?" John repeats.

"There'll be more of them," I say, moving towards dad. "They'll be keeping a eye on the building." Dad nods and removes the silencer from the pistol as we walk out, John following us outside.

"We should call the police," John suggests.

"Yes," dad agrees and points the gun into the air and fires five times and causing a car to screech to a stop down the road. "On their way."

"For God's sake!" John says as we turn back and walk inside.

"Oh shut up," dad replies. "It's quick." We walk into the sitting room and see Irene turning from the safe to look at us.

"Check the rest of the house," I say to John. "See how they got in." Dad walks further into the room and takes a phone from his pocket and tosses it casually into the air before catching it again. That must have been what was in the safe.

"Well, that's the knighthood in the bag," dad says.

"Ah," Irene says. "And that's mine." She holds out her hand, but dad ignores her and instead, switches the phone on. I peer over his shoulder and see the security screen saying 'I am' above four spaces and 'locked' beneath it. He hands the phone to me.

"All the photographs are on here, I presume," I say, analysing the screen, yet I still see Irene raise her eyes slightly.

"I have copies, of course," she says.

"No you don't," dad replies. "You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

"Who said I'm selling?" she asks, lowering her hand.

"Well, why would they be interested?" I ask.

"Whatever's on the phone, it's clearly not just photographs," dad continues.

"That camera phone is my life, Mr Holmes," she says, her tone changing slightly as she says his name. "I'd die before I let either of you take it." I grimace slightly as she says this and she walks over to me before holding her hand out again. "It's my protection."

"Then you'll understand why I'm keeping Sophie," dad says. "I'm her protection. You can't see her again."

"I'm her mother," she cries. "I have a right to see her."

"You cannot chose when you want to be mother," dad argues, and I keep my gaze down as they argue. "You practically left her on my doorstop when you ran away. What's to stop you from doing it again?"

"Sophie ..." she pleads, and I raise my head.

"I'm sorry, mum," I reply. "You drugged me."

"I was trying to protect you from the Americans," she admits. "You were in no danger. I had Kate taking care of you upstairs. I love you Sophie, honestly I do. I visited you a few weeks ago when you were in hospital after your father got you shot. You haven't left my sight." My mouth opens slightly as I remember. I did see her - she was sitting beside me in my hospital room. I remember wondering who she was. How could I be so oblivious? I'm about to respond, but I'm interrupted by John's call from upstairs.

"Sherlock!" Eager to leave before I give in, I turn and chase up the stair to find John, dad and Irene following behind.

"That would explain why I woke up alone," I say, arriving in the master bedroom. On the floor lies Kate, unconscious and clearly knocked out by the Americans. John is checking her over and stands up to check the bathroom window as dad and Irene catch up.

"Must have come in this way," John says.

"Clearly," dad says, but he's disbelieving as he checks the window out for himself.

"It's all right," John says to Irene as she looks anxiously at Kate. "She's just out cold."

"Well, God knows she's used to that," Irene says, relieved. "There's a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson." I narrow my eyes, knowing it's just a ploy to get us alone again, but dad nods to him as he emerges from the bathroom.

"Sure," John replies before leaving. I take the time to take another look at the phone. The possible combinations are endless because you can use both letters and numbers. I need time. I need to get this home.

"You're very calm," dad says while looking over my shoulder and for a moment I think he's speaking to me, but Irene turns and looks at him blankly. "Well, your booby trap did just kill a man."

"He would have killed me," she defends. "It was self defence in advance."

"Let me see it," dad says, taking the phone back off of me. I raise my eyebrows slightly, but then gasp as I feel the pinprick of another needle in my arm. Dad mirrors my shock as Irene does the same to him, then helps me reach the floor without too much of a fall.

"I'm sorry Sophie," she whispers and just as my eyes close, I see her reach out and slap dad across the face.


	6. Chapter Five - Scandal in Belgravia V

A shrill ringing wakes me up, and I sit up and puke into a well placed bucket beside the bed. I let out a groan as the room blurs before me, making it impossible for me to work out where I am. I can hear something else against the noise of what only can be a fire alarm - footsteps. My limbs tighten as I try to move them, but I get nowhere. The drug I must have been injected with a temporary paraletic. So I just have to hope that it's just a drill.

I close my eyes again, the drug making me feel woozy and uncoordinated, but almost as soon as I do, I feel two hands grab both of my arm and haul me back into a seated position.

"Sorry Miss Holmes," someone says. The voice is accented, but I can't focus enough to identify which of the million accents that he's speaking with. "You're coming with us." The hands on my arms tighten as they lift me off of the unfamiliar bed. "Ms Adler is downstairs," the voice says again. "And for god sake, someone turn that damn alarm off." I blink quickly, trying to get my eyes to focus as I'm lifted up and supported on the shoulders of two men. The name they said is familiar ... Ms Adler ... Ms Adler ... MS ADLER!

I'm at my mothers house, I remember now. She was the one who injected me with the drug and took me upstairs to this room. As they carry me out, my mind starts working again. I saw something, what did I see? The bedroom was small, certainly not the master bedroom, however there were family pictures. Not many people, especially my mother, puts family pictures in the guest bedroom, which means I was lying in my own. My mother has kept a room ready for me. She still loves me.

My feet drag the ground slightly as we start the descent down the stairs. The alarm is getting louder, however it soon stops after a few gunshots from up ahead. I can see John at the bottom of the stairs, watching calmly as they bring me down. The man on my left raises his own pistol as we reach the bottom of the stairs, and John puts his hands up.

"Thank you," John says.

"Mr Watson," says the accented man - I now recognise it as American - stepping forward. "For your sake stay quiet." The two men let go of me and push me towards John, who catches me. I canhear John asking if I'm alright - if they hurt me - but I steady my breathing as I concentrate on what's being said on the other side of the door.

"Thank you," I hear dad say. "On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." I close my eyes in disbelief. She clearly didn't look up at my bedroom, or towards the door, meaning I'm not her priority. I can't believe I fell for her trick. "Really hope you don't have a baby in here." He pauses for a moment, having obviously found the safe. "Hmm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used - that's quite clearly the three - but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday - no disrespect but clearly you were born in the eighties; the eight's barely used, so ..."

"I'd tell you the code right now," I hear mother - I mean Irene - say, "but you know what? I already have. Think." One of the men grabs me as another struggles with John. I don't have enough strength to fight back as the American pushes past us both, his gun raised and pointed towards dad. He seems to be sporting a cut on his cheek, clearly his way of getting in, but otherwise he's unharmed. At the moment. Mycroft must have simply forgotten to tell us that there was a group of CIA trained professional killers on the case as well.

"Hands behind your head," the American says before turning to Irene. "On the floor. Keep it still." The man holding onto me throws me to the floor beside the sofa before walking Irene over to where I stand as John is also brought beside me.

"Sorry, Sherlock," John apologises. I don't have the strength to speak. I feel sick again. Dad raises his own hands before the American looks back around at Irene.

"Ms Adler, on the floor." The man, clearly assuming I'm safe to be left alone, moves back over to Irene and pushes her down onto her knees. She seems to be naked, apart from dads coat. What happened whilst I was asleep? I feel the cold metal of a pistol pressed against my neck, and I raise my head to look at dad.

"Don't you want me on the floor too?" Dad asks sarcastically.

"No, sir," the American says. "I want you to open the safe."

"American," dad says, noticing the accent. "Interesting. Why would you care?"

"Sir, the safe, now, please." The American demands. I feel Irene looking at me out of the corner of her eye, but I don't look at her. Not after what she did to me.

"I don't know the code," dad says.

"We've been listening," the American tells him. "She said she told you."

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't."

"I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr Holmes."

"For God's sake," John cries. "She's the one who knows the code. Ask her."

"Yes, sir," the American replies. "She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."

"Mr Holmes doesn't ..." Irene tries, but the American interrupts.

"Shut up. One more word out of you - just one - and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship." I see a glimmer of emotion cross dads face as this is said and I have some hope. "Mr Archer. At the count of three, shoot Miss Holmes."

"What?" I manage to say.

"I don't have the code," dad says, sounding worried and I cower down as i feel the muzzle of Archer's gun against the back of my neck, cocking it.

"One." I close my eyes and breath in and out slowly. If I'm going to die here, I'm going to go with some dignity, so I sit back up.

"I don't know the code." His voice shakes and I open my eyes to stare at him pleadingly.

"Two."

"She didn't tell me," he begs. "I don't know it!"

"I'm prepared to believe you any second now." He averts his gaze from me as he looks to Irene for help. Please. I see her bow her head and dad's eyes widen in realisation. Seriously?

"Three."

"No, stop!" Dad cries, and the American holds up his free hand to stop Archer as I let out a sigh of relief. He'll only be able to do this if he remembers her, though. He'll only be able to do this if he lets his walls down. I watch him closely as he turns, lowering his hands from their raised position by his head and enters a number - I can't see which. The sensation in my legs, however, is beginning to come back, as is my strength. Whatever was in that drug seems to be wearing off and I know dad won't let those photos go without a fight, so I'll need it. Dad punches another number in. Very slowly, he finishes the sequence. I smile slightly, and I see Irene do the same.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," the American says. "Open it, please." Dad twists the button and I narrow my eyes. It's very likely to be booby trapped, and I see dad turning slightly to check this. She bows her head with a small jerk and dad turns back to the safe.

"Vatican cameos," dad says urgently, and I drop to the floor, grabbing and pulling John so he lands beside me. Dad opens the safe and ducks down as the tripwire pulls the trigger of a silencer which fires a bullet and hits Archer in the chest. I take the pistol from Archer's hand as John pulls out his own before checking him over. Frozen by shock, the American allows dad to take his pistol and smacks it across his face, causing him to drop to the floor, unconscious. Irene spins around on her knees and elbows her guard in the groin and he crumples to the floor in pain as she takes his pistol and stands up, aiming the gun at him.

"D'you mind?" Dad asks polietly.

"Not at all," Irene replies as her guard tries to get up again, and she does the same as dad, also knocking her guard unconscious. Using the distraction, dad reaches in and takes something out.

"He's dead," John says, standing up.

"Thank you?" Irene says, helping me to stand and checks me over. "You remembered."

"Remembered?" John questions.

"I'm flattered," Irene continues, ignoring John as I shrug away from her.

"Don't be," dad says.

"Flattered?" John repeats.

"There'll be more of them," I say, moving towards dad. "They'll be keeping a eye on the building." Dad nods and removes the silencer from the pistol as we walk out, John following us outside.

"We should call the police," John suggests.

"Yes," dad agrees and points the gun into the air and fires five times and causing a car to screech to a stop down the road. "On their way."

"For God's sake!" John says as we turn back and walk inside.

"Oh shut up," dad replies. "It's quick." We walk into the sitting room and see Irene turning from the safe to look at us.

"Check the rest of the house," I say to John. "See how they got in." Dad walks further into the room and takes a phone from his pocket and tosses it casually into the air before catching it again. That must have been what was in the safe.

"Well, that's the knighthood in the bag," dad says.

"Ah," Irene says. "And that's mine." She holds out her hand, but dad ignores her and instead, switches the phone on. I peer over his shoulder and see the security screen saying 'I am' above four spaces and 'locked' beneath it. He hands the phone to me.

"All the photographs are on here, I presume," I say, analysing the screen, yet I still see Irene raise her eyes slightly.

"I have copies, of course," she says.

"No you don't," dad replies. "You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

"Who said I'm selling?" she asks, lowering her hand.

"Well, why would they be interested?" I ask.

"Whatever's on the phone, it's clearly not just photographs," dad continues.

"That camera phone is my life, Mr Holmes," she says, her tone changing slightly as she says his name. "I'd die before I let either of you take it." I grimace slightly as she says this and she walks over to me before holding her hand out again. "It's my protection."

"Then you'll understand why I'm keeping Sophie," dad says. "I'm her protection. You can't see her again."

"I'm her mother," she cries. "I have a right to see her."

"You cannot chose when you want to be mother," dad argues, and I keep my gaze down as they argue. "You practically left her on my doorstop when you ran away. What's to stop you from doing it again?"

"Sophie ..." she pleads, and I raise my head.

"I'm sorry, mum," I reply. "You drugged me."

"I was trying to protect you from the Americans," she admits. "You were in no danger. I had Kate taking care of you upstairs. I love you Sophie, honestly I do. I visited you a few weeks ago when you were in hospital after your father got you shot. You haven't left my sight." My mouth opens slightly as I remember. I did see her - she was sitting beside me in my hospital room. I remember wondering who she was. How could I be so oblivious? I'm about to respond, but I'm interrupted by John's call from upstairs.

"Sherlock!" Eager to leave before I give in, I turn and chase up the stair to find John, dad and Irene following behind.

"That would explain why I woke up alone," I say, arriving in the master bedroom. On the floor lies Kate, unconscious and clearly knocked out by the Americans. John is checking her over and stands up to check the bathroom window as dad and Irene catch up.

"Must have come in this way," John says.

"Clearly," dad says, but he's disbelieving as he checks the window out for himself.

"It's all right," John says to Irene as she looks anxiously at Kate. "She's just out cold."

"Well, God knows she's used to that," Irene says, relieved. "There's a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson." I narrow my eyes, knowing it's just a ploy to get us alone again, but dad nods to him as he emerges from the bathroom.

"Sure," John replies before leaving. I take the time to take another look at the phone. The possible combinations are endless because you can use both letters and numbers. I need time. I need to get this home.

"You're very calm," dad says while looking over my shoulder and for a moment I think he's speaking to me, but Irene turns and looks at him blankly. "Well, your booby trap did just kill a man."

"He would have killed me," she defends. "It was self defence in advance."

"Let me see it," dad says, taking the phone back off of me. I raise my eyebrows slightly, but then gasp as I feel the pinprick of another needle in my arm. Dad mirrors my shock as Irene does the same to him, then helps me reach the floor without too much of a fall.

"I'm sorry Sophie," she whispers and just as my eyes close, I see her reach out and slap dad across the face.


	7. Chapter Six - Scandal in Belgravia VI

I wake up in a similar state as before. I hope this isn't going to become a regualr occurance. There's someone in the room.

"Hush now," they say as they notice I'm awake. "I'm just making sure you're okay." She plants her lips on my forehead before dad stirrs in the bed beside me. She looks up and kisses him on the lips. "It's okay, she says gently, stroking his head. "I'm only returning your coat." My eyes close and she becomes blurry. It feels like the next second, but it's actually a few hours later that I wake up. I notice I'm still fully dressed.

"John?" I hear dad slur and shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. "John!" he repeats, louder this time as he throws the covers off and struggles to his feet.

"I really wouldn't advise -" I croak, but he keels over and falls to the floor.

"You okay?" John asks as he opens the door.

"How did I get here?"

"Well, I don't suppose you remember much," he replies and I can hear his contained smirk on his voice. "You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

"Where is she?" dad groans.

"Sophie?" John questions. "She's here, Sherlock. She's right beside you." He walks over to check on me. "How're you?"

"I'm good," I say, forcing myself to sit up. It's clearly a different drug to what she gave me before and it doesn't seem to have made me as weak as before. John hands me a glass of water, which I take, and drink back in one.

"No," dad says. "The woman. That woman."

"What woman?" John questions, helping me to stand up.

"The woman," dad repeats, standing up and stumbling around the room. "The woman woman!"

"What, Irene Adler?" John questions again, still watching me carefully as I stand up. "She got away. No-one saw her." Dad stumbles towards the window and looks through it. I wonder how she got here and out again, as I'm certain it wasn't a dream. "She wasn't here, Sherlock," John says seeing what he's doing. Dad turns around and promptly falls to the floor and then drags himself along towards to look under the bed.

"Sherlock? I say, questioning his sanity as he begins looking around elesewhere. "She's not here anymore, and I doubt she would have left any evidence behind." He grunts in response but continues to look.

"Right," John says and grabs hold of dad and hauls him, face down, onto the bed. "Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

"Of course I'll be fine," dad slurs. "I am fine. I'm absolutely fine."

"Yes, you're great," John says sarcastically and I follow him towards the door. "Now we'll be next door if you need us."

"Why would I need you?"

"No reason at all." We walk out and I close the door softly behind me.

"You have a date tonight," I say, observing his clean shirt. "You don't have to stay here, I'll be fine."

"I don't doubt it," he replies turning to the kettle as we reach the kitchen. "But it's only Rachel."

"Rachel?" I question, sitting down in dads chair. "That's the one you were with during the Aluminium Crutch - the spotty one - isn't it?"

"Mmhmm," John agrees from the kitchen.

"You were going to dump her tonight anyway, am I wrong?"

"How do you -" John tried before shaking his head. "Yes, you're right."

"It was quite obvious," I say. "Typically, a lot of money is spent on a first date and the only occasions which have more spent on them are either proposals or breakups. You took her to the chinese last week, but this week it was going to be a midrange restaurant. Not one of the best, but the food is passable and I find the wine served there are some of the easiest to get out of clothes. It's the oldest trick in the book. I'd be suprised if she hadn't noticed as well which is why she's going to call in a minute to cancel, in an attempt to make you pay a reservation cancellation price." John nods in agreement as he sets down a mug of coffee beside me.

"Well it's good to know you weren't affected by the drug," he replies.

"She gave me a different one to Sherlock," I shrug. "I'm her daughter after all." Smash. "As cold hearted as she is, she wouldn't let any harm come to me." I look up to see John staring at me, his cup of tea currently smashed on the floor in a puddle.

"Irene Adler is your mother?" John questions, completely dumbfounded.

"Yes," I say frowning. "I thought that was fairly obvious."

"Your mother," John repeats. "Wait. How did Mycroft not know - when we were at the palace?"

"Family feud," I reply. "We didn't speak to Mycroft for years after dads first overdose. He never met Irene." John nods in understanding, then shakes his head in disbelief with the idea. I guess I am also still grasping hold of the idea of who my mother really is.

I'm woken next morning as dad stirs from the bed beside me. He sits up in bed, groans and sinks back under the covers. I know the reason for this. We told Mycroft that we'd have the photographs by today and now it turns out we've lost Irene again and knowing my dear uncle, he'll gloat.

And I'm right. Mycroft turns up while we're having breakfast - well, John is having breakfast. Dad and I are leafing through various newspapers, hoping to find a new case while our homeless network hunt Irene down.

"I've had to take an hour of my very busy schedule to collect the photographs, Sherlock," Mycroft sighs. "Please tell me I have made a false assumption in thinking you have failed."

"The photographs are perfectly safe," dad says calmly.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker," Mycroft finishes, and John shoots me an anxious look over the top of his new mug.

"She's not interested in blackmail," dad says. "She wants ... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs?" Mycroft replies, exasperated. "Our hands are tied."

"She'd applaud your choice of words," dad resonds as John covers a smirk. "You see how this works: that camera phone is her 'Get out of jail free' card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

"Though not the way she treats royalty," John finishes with a sarcastic smile of which Mycroft replies humourlessly. I stay quiet. My silence is going to be noted at some point, and then Mycroft will be wanting to know why.

My thoughts are interrupted by an orgasmic female sigh as it fills the room, and John and Mycroft frown, their eyes automatically flitting to me.

"That wasn't me," I say, suprised myself at the noise.

"What was that?" John questions.

"Text," dad replies, trying to look casual.

"But what was that noise?" he asks as dad gets up to pick his phone up. I peek over his shoulder at the message.

Good morning, Mr. Holmes

There's a message above it which reads 'Till the next time, Mr Holmes', but no response from dad, which is suprising.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent your niece and I in there?" dad questions. "CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft," John says sarcastically as Mrs Hudson brings two cooked breakfasts and places them in front of dad and I. I look at it, but don't feel hungry.

"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother and your niece into danger like that," Mrs Hudson says sternly. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft groans.

"MYCROFT!" dad and I cry, absolutely furious at his treatment of our, currently indigant, landlady. At the same time, John shouts "OI!" It's clear how close we've all grown to each other, despite only living here for a few months.

Mycroft hesitates for a moment as he reads our expressions and he cringes as he scrapes together his decency before turning and looking contritely at Mrs Hudson.

"Apologies," he says.

"Thank you," she replies and bustles back into the kitchen.

"Though do, in fact, shut up," dad responds and I give him a shove as his text alet goes off again.

"Ooh," Mrs Hudson cries, stopping and turning around. "It's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" I peer at dads phone as he checks it.

Feeling better?

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see," dad tells Mycroft, ignoring the text and putting the phone back down onto the table.

"I can put maximum surveillance on her," he responds.

"Why bother?" I perk up. "You can follow her on Twitter if you want. I believe her user name is 'TheWhipHand'."

"Yes," he says, giving me a tight smile. "Most amusing." His phone rings and he takes it from his pocket and looks down at the caller ID. "Excuse me." My eyes follow him into the hall as he raises the phone to his ear. What could this be about? Clearly it's work, due to the fact he does very little else. Maybe I'm just a little too curious. Don't be ridiculous. There's no such thing as too curious.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John questions, forking another mouthful and eating it.

"What noise?" dad replies casually.

"That noise - the one it just made."

"It's a text alert," dad patronises. "It means I've got a text."

"Hmm," John says, stabbing another piece of sausage. "Your texts don't usually make that noise."

"Well," dad explains, sounding annoyed, "somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalised their text alert noise."

"Hmm," John utters as he chews. "So every time they text you ..." As if on cue, the alert goes off again and I hear Mrs Hudson's audible tut.

"It would seem so," dad finishes.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit?" she requests. "At my time of life, it's ..." She doesn't finish.

I'm fine since you didn't ask

I look away from the screen as dad places his phone on the table and we go back to reading our separate newspapers. Why isn't he responding?

"I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone," John says slowly,already knowing the answer, but asking anyway to make a point, "because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?" Dad raises the newspaper so it covers his face and any way of me reading him.

"I'll leave you to your deductions." John smiles at me before continuing.

"I'm not stupid, you know."

"Where do you get that idea?" Dad responds as Mycroft enters the room again, still talking into the phone. Why is he doing that? If what he's talking about is so important, he wouldn't be dealing with it in front of us.

"Bond Air is go, that's decided," he says, and my ears perk up. Bond? "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." Air could mean aeroplane, but bond? James Bond, perhaps. I need more information - it's dangerous to make assumptions otherwise - but he hangs up.

"What else does she have?" dad asks, but Mycroft looks at him, puzzled. "Irene Adler," he reminds him. "The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more." He stands up as he realises and stands up, I think in an attempt to look more intimidating. "Much more." Mycroft looks back at him, stony-faced.

"Something big's coming, isn't it?" I realise.

"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours," Mycroft says, realising himself that we've dived to far into this. "From now on you will stay out of this."

"Oh, will I?" dad challenges.

"Yes, Sherlock, you will." John looks across at me, but I don't look back. I've just found out my mother is alive. I'm not going to end all contact with her because of Mycroft.

Dad shrugs, not bothering to argue and instead turns to his violin.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Mycroft says, "I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love," dad says and begins to play 'God Save the Queen'. Mycroft rolls his eyes and leaves. Dad follows him out, still playing, as John and I exchange grins. I do love getting on his nerves.


	8. Chapter Seven - Leviathans I

"Check this out," I say, pointing to an article in the newspaper. "'Bodysnatching duo caught on camera.' Look at the stills." John stands up and comes around, while dad leans over to look.

"Wait, that's the Americans from the boat, isn't it?" John questions. "What were their names - Sam and Dan?"

"Sam and Dean," I correct them. "Winchester. What are they doing in Britain again?"

"Stealing bodies, naturally," dad says.

"I get that, but why?" I ask. Just as I speak, the doorbell rings. I frown. It wasn't urgent enough to be a client, and we're not expecting anyone. "I'll check it out," I say, realising the men won't, apparently engrossed in the article.

The doorbell continues to ring as I make it down the stairs, so I skip the last few and jog to the door.

"Sam!" I say, surprised. "Dean, hello."

"Hey shortie," Dean says. "See you're looking better."

"I'm not short," I respond.

"Whatever," he replies. "Hey Sophie, do you mind if we come in, we've got something to tell you and your father."

"You don't mean the bodysnatching," I say, frowning.

"It's linked," Dean shrugs and, nodding, I let them in and they follow me up the stairs.

"I've found our bodysnatchers," I say as we reach the landing, and dad and John's heads turn to look.

"John, Sherlock," Sam says, stepping forward and shaking their hands. "It's great to see you guys again."

"Yeah, you too," John says, smiling. "So what've you been up to - besides digging up bodies of course?"

"Oh, you know," Dean says. "Trying to hunt down a species of body switching monsters from Purgatory." He shrugs. "You know, the usual." John frowns.

"What do you -?"

"You didn't know?" I ask. "Sam and Dean are hunters. "

"Hunters?"

"We hunt down supernatural beings and shoot their asses," Dean explains. "The family business."

"Sounds great," dad says, coughing. "Why are you here?"

"We need your help," Sam admits. "We thought that the portal from Purgatory only opened in America, but we've had some readings which suggest otherwise."

"Basically," Dean says, continuing. "The Leviathans have invaded the UK."


	9. Chapter Eight - Leviathans II

"Leviathans?" I question, frowning at the two men. "Never heard of them." The brothers exchange glances.

"Well you soon will," Sam says. "Are you familiar with the biblic versions of Leviathans?"

"Supposedly a creature created by God before the angels," dad says, shrugging. "They're a sea monster."

"Almost right," Dean replies. "God basically locked them in purgatory because they had an overwhelming desire to eat, but they aren't sea monsters. In their true form, they're just a lump of black goo, but they have shapeshifting abilities. They're also nasty sons of bitches to kill. We haven't found their weak spot yet."

"And these 'sons of bitches' as you call them are intent on taking over the world," I conclude, and the Winchesters nod. "Well this should be interesting."

"I still don't understand - why do you need us?" John asks. "Surely there're hunters which live here?"

"Oh yeah," Sam says. "Some brilliant ones, but we're not exactly..." he fades off and his face contorts.

"Seeing eye to eye," I finish. "Why's that?"

"Sammy kinda kick started the apocolypse a few years back," Dean says, and Sam looks at the floor, embarrased. "So yeah, you could say we're resented by a few people."

"These Leviathans, they can look like anyone?" dad queiries. "Is there any pattern?"

"Not that we've established so far," Sam says. "But their location will be somewhere with a high record of murders and missing persons."

"London," I say. "We must have the highest of both of those in the country."

"It would make sense that they infiltrate the capital city first," Sam replies. "We can trace them back to one leader, so if we can find any records of anyone from your government visiting this guy, we might be onto something."

"What's the name?" I question, already reaching for my computer.

"Er Roman. Dick Roman." I turn the name over in my head as I type. It sounds familiar.

"Richard Roman," I read from the screen once it loads. "Knew the name was familliar. American billionare and CEO of Richard Roman Enterprise making him one of the most influential person on Earth."

"Wow," Sam says, coming over and looking over my shoulder. "That was quick. What've you got installed on that thing?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," I respond, bringing up this months diary before grimacing. "If what you're saying about supernatual existence is true -"

"It is," Dean interrupts.

"If it is," I continue, "then we've got a serious problem."

"Oh shit."

"The Leviathans have infiltrated the government."


	10. Chapter Nine - Leviathans III

"This isn't the first there've been monsters in the Houses of Parliament, you know," John says, coming out from his room and joining us as we follow the Winchesters towards the road.

"Yeah!" Sam says, his eyes wide in realisation. "London was in the centre of that thing a while back wasn't it? The thing with the children?" I shudder.

It can't have been much more than a year since it happened. When the children of Earth stood still and spoke in unison. I was among them. I was at school when it happened the first and second time, but at home with dad for the final time. He was convinced it wasn't aliens, but couldn't find another solution so he went back to using drugs. He missed an entire alien invasion because he was in hospital, passed out after an overdose. It's not one of my better memories.

"That's the one," John replies and I recognise the black Chevvy Impala they brought with them when they were saying goodbye after the Tilly Briggs incident and we get in, dad, John and I somehow managing to squeeze together to fit on the backseat.

"Could that be what Mycroft was talking about on the phone earlier?" I wonder out loud.

"They're very hard to recognise," Dean says from the front. "Even for us. They don't have the same features as the typically shapeshifters, so it's very unlikely this Mycroft would." He makes sense, but I can't help but wonder. Mycroft dabbles in almost all areas of the government - Mr Frobisher, the man who dealt with the alien the last time, was working with Mycroft. It's likely he knows a lot more than he's letting on - in fact it's inevitable.

"I'm assuming you've formulated some kind of plan," dad says. "Considering you don't have a way of killing these Leviathans." Sam and Dean exchange glances.

"You don't have a plan," I say. "Why am I not suprised?"

"I'll try not to be offended by that," Dean remarks. "We're very organised, aren't we Sammy?"

"They're right Dean," Sam says. "We haven't got a chance."

"Maybe we don't have to go in for a full blown attack yet," John suggests. "Just do a prelimerary search mission for now and collect information on what they plan to be doing in the near future."

"That's not half bad," Sam compliments.

"But what would we gain?" I question. "Unless ..."

"What?" Dean questions, and I frown, exchanging glances with dad.

"You mentioned that in their true form, the Leviathans were a viscous substance," I recall. "That means if we can lure them to show their true form, we can extract some of their 'goo', as you put it, and through titration, work out how much alkali is needed to neutralise the acid in the Leviathans."

"You lost me at viscous substance," Dean says, slamming the steering wheel as we hit the back of the London traffic. I can see Sam roll his eyes at the front.

"Viscous is a word to describe something which is in a state between a solid and a liquid," Sam explains, sounding tired, "like goo."

"Yeah, I got that Walter White," Dean says. "But what the hells a titration."

"Dude, we covered titration in high school," Sam said, and I see Dean raise an eyebrow at him.

"You think I paid any attention to high school chemistry?" Dean scoffs. "Sammy, on the odd occassion we actually attended school, I spent most of it away snogging Amanda Heckerling." Sam sighs and shakes his head.

"It's a way of measuring the concentration of an unknown acid or alkali," he explains, while dad looks out of the window now that we're finally moving again and I can see John smirking into his fist as he listens. How the hell did they manage to stop the apocolypse?


	11. Chapter Ten - Leviathans IV

I manage to acquire a few passes for Sam, Dean and I to use to get into parliament, whereas dad uses one of Mycroft's cards.

"We have about half an hour," dad says, tucking the card back inside his jacket as we pass security. They pat us down, but don't seem to notice the guns in each of our pockets. "Don't waste any time."

"We have five people the Leviathans are likely to be," I say, looking down at the list of names, "so I suggest we take one person each." Dad nods in agreement.

"That would be the most time effective suggestion," dad says, and I hand out character profiles of each member of parliament we're looking into.

"Do we all know what we're doing?" Dean questions and we nod. "Great, meet back here at the end of the thirty minutes then. Good luck guys." As they separate and go off in different directions, I look down at my own piece of paper. Jeremy Nox is the name printed at the top, and a small photo shows him to be a middle aged man.

I've only been here once before - with Mycroft, naturally - so I have to check with the recpetionist to find out where the foreign office is. Looking over at the desk, I see a woman in her early fifties shuffling through some paperwork. She doesn't seem too bad - a simple cover will do.

"Hi," I say, walking over to her. She looks up at me with a frown, but I continue. "Sorry, good morning. My name is Amanda Brian, Mr Nox's junior PA. I was wondering if you could direct me to his office."

"I wasn't notified Mr Nox was to recieve a new PA today," she replies, but then smiles. "To be fair, I don't get notified of much. You'll find him on the third floor, his office is the second on the right. Good luck Amanda."

"Thank you," I say, and turn around, heading for the lift.

Eventually, I find the office and step inside. I'm immediately noticed by the senior PA, who stands up and walks over to me.

"Can I help you with anything?"

"Yes, I have a meeting scheduled for now with Mr Nox," I explain. "It's for a school project."

"Of course," she says. "Come on in." She leads me towards a door at the back of the room and opens it. "Another school student for you, Mr Nox."

"Ah," he smiles. "Thank you Denise. Come on in, my dear." He pulls a seat out for me, which I sit in as Denise leaves. The door and walls are solid, so nobody can look in from the office, and they also look fairly soundproof as well. I change my glance to the windows, which shows a view onto the Thames. It's too high to jump, so my only escape route is back through the office. "So what can I help you with ...?"

"Amanda," I reply, using my previous alias. "Amanda Brian. I wanted to ask you a few questions concerning Richard Roman, who I understand you met with a few weeks ago." He tenses, but smiles.

"Ask away."

"What was the purpose of you meeting with Mr Roman?" I question, thinking through how I'm going to execute the next few minutes. In theory, if I damage his body to such an extent that it can't repair, the Leviathan may be forced out of the body. However that would also mean that it would have to find a new body.

"Mr Roman has launched a new programme in the US which I believe will beneift the UK," he responds. "That's all I can say at this point." I nod, and pull out a notepad which I pretend to write in.

"I think the Leviathan programme is his best idea yet," I say. "Wouldn't you agree, brother?"

"You're one of us?" he questions, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"But of course," I reply. "I have to say the body I chose suits me well. I'm not suprised you didn't recognise me. Excuse me if I change into our true form, brother. As good as I look, she wears uncomforable clothing."

"Not at all," he responds. "In fact, I think I'll join you." I know I have to be quick. I fish a small tub from out of my coat and slip on some gloves as he changes form.

It looks as though he's just melted. Black goo seeps across the floor and in a heartbeat, I've knelt down and scooped a small amount into my tub. Although it doesn't make a noise, I can sense its fury and it rises up - taller than I am. I have no choice. Screwing on the lid of the bottle, I tuck it inside the zip pocket of my jacket and sprint towards the window. I have one chance at this. I jump.


	12. Chapter Eleven - Leviathans V

I cover my face as the glass shatters around me and I can feel them cut into my skin, but I concentrate on peddling my legs to propell me forwards. I stand half a chance of surviving if I land in the water but if I hit the ground - I don't stand a chance.

My heart is in my mouth as I look at the ground below me. I've never liked heights, and now I might die because of it.

Luckily, I seem to be getting closer to the water and I've also caught the attention of half of London. It's all happening so quickly. I stop moving my legs and instead push myself forward so that I'm in a diving position. I take in a deep breath, bracing myself for the impact of the water. If I've misjudged this and it's low tide, I'm dead.

But I feel my hands push through the surface of the water, and less than a second later, I'm fully submerged.

My long coat drags me down, but I kick up to the surface. It's physically draining, and my only guide is a dim light in the distance due to the murkiness. It does't bare thinking about what I'm swimming in now. Eventually, however, I reach the surface, and when I do, I draw in a deep breath.


	13. Chapter Twelve - Leviathans VI

"Sophie!" he exclaims."Are you okay? Where's your dad?"

"I'm fine," I say as a ginger woman pushes through to join the doctor's side. I give him a questioning glance and he nods.

"Sophie, meet Donna, Donna meet Sophie."

"My god," she exlaims, "are you alright?" She has a strong London accent and firey ginger hair and ... there's something on her back.

I frown, and manage to blink the image away. Must be the shock.

"Yeah, thanks," I say.

"What were you doing!?" the doctor questions, looking back up at the window from which I jumped.

"Escaping from an angry Leviathan," I say nochanlantly. The stopwatch on my arm starts beeping and I look back up at the doctor and his companion. "Speaking of which, I need to be back in there to meet dad and John. You coming?"

"Leviathans?" he questions. "Haven't seen them in a while. Last time I knew anything about them was when I took them to purgatory."

"Well it would seem as though they've managed to escape," I say. "Now are you coming."

"Yeah, we can tag along, can't we Donna?"

"Well we do have a day to kill," Donna sighs. "You know, after you got us stuck in a bloody parallel universe."

"Great," I say, eager to get away before the press arrive. "Lets go."

"Or as I would say," the doctor smiles, "allons-y!"


	14. Chapter Thirteen - Leviathans VII

My little party and I were the last to arrive in the reception, and John comes over to me.

"What the hell happened?" John demands, coming over and looking over my cuts. "Some of these are quite deep Soph."

"Isn't it obvious?" dad says. "She jumped out of the window into the Thames."

"Even I got that," Dean says, smirking, but at the same time, looking concerned at my appearance. Now the adreneline is starting to dissipate, I can feel the extent of my wounds. They haven't seemed to notice the Doctor and Donna behind me.

"I'm fine," I repeat, for what feels like the fifteenth time. "The point is, the Leviathans know we're onto them now. We need to get to Barts - now."

"Agreed," John says. "If only for the sake of patching you up." The doctor clears his throat and the men look up.

"Is that ...?" Sam questions.

"Doctor," dad says, "and your new companion. Shame, Martha was better."

"Nice to meet you too," Donna says. "And who are you, Mr Spock?"

"Who?" dad questions, and John turns to him.

"Star Trek!"

"Never heard of it," dad shrugs down John's indignant tone.

"Donna, this is Sherlock Holmes," the doctor says, rubbing his head. This obviously hasn't gone to plan. "And this is John Watson."

"As in the Sherlock Holmes from the book?"

"The one and the same."

"Oh my god!" Donna cries. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

"And I'm Dean Winchester," Dean interrupts. "This is Sam."

"And I'm impatient," I say. "Can we go now. Every minute we spend here is another minute the Leviathans are going to find us. I don't know how you lot got your extracts, but I know mine won't be long in getting back into a disguise."


	15. Chapter Fourteen - Leviathans VIII

The Doctor joins us at Barts while Sam and Dean take Donna to see if they can find anything about the portal which brought them here in the first place.

"What exactly are we looking for again?" John questions, placing a conical flask on the worktop.

"Any alkali which is strong enough to neutralise the chemicals in the Leviathans, which should, theoretically, kill them," I explain. "The tricky part is finding the right concentration."

Dad brings in a small machine and probe and sets it down on the worktop.

"A pH probe and meter," the Doctor exclaims, breaking into a grin. "Been a long time since I've seen one of these beauties!" Dad nods in acknowledgment and I pour the wriggling liquid into one of the flasks, then as I draw my hands away, dad casts the probe down into the glass. The Leviathan sample hisses slightly upon contact but we wait for the figure to appear on the screen of the meter.

"2.3," John reads, eyebrows raised. "Meaning we need to find something with the pH of 9.3...?" I nod to confirm then think. I can see dad eyeing me, seeing how quickly I come to the right decision.

I smile and sprint out through the doors and a little way down the corridor to the cleaner's room. I take a hairpin out of my hair as I realise it's locked, but the Doctor takes out something which looks like a torch with a blue light and opens the door, the instrument giving a slight humm as the door slips off the latch.

"Can I see that?" I can hear John's excitement as the Time Lord passes him the torch-thingy and I assume it bares some relevant to the tv show he claims the Doctor is from.

I sift through the cupboard, pushing tins aside and dropping bottles onto the floor until I find what I'm looking for.

"Surface cleaner?" John frowns, handing the Doctor back his instrument.

"Borax," I correct, peering at the label. "pH of 9.3 and kills 99% of all germs to top it off."

But the Doctor seems unimpressed.

"I can't let you kill them," he says quietly. "Not without giving them the chance of going peacefully."

"This is a full-scale invasion," John argues. "They entered our homes and took our men, women and children. I think they've gone too far."

"And you think retaliating is any better?" The Doctor snaps. "Burning every single Leviathan because they got in the way."

"If you have a problem with the way we're operating this, then I suggest you get back into your blue box and fly away," I say. "You are on Earth, the home planet of the human race and this is how we deal with alien threats. You better hope we don't turn on you for getting in our way." I turn and start walking back towards the lab.

"Yeah," he says, softer now but I continue to walk. "Okay then."

"Sorry?" John questions.

"On you go," the Doctor says, in a false, lighter tone. "You're right, I can't stop you."

"I'm glad we've got that sorted," I call back down the corridor and turn into the lab, walking directly for the flask on the work-top. I can see the Doctor watching me, hate in his eyes as I pour the potentially deadly liquid into the flask. The black substance hizzes upon contact and begins to steam before exploding against the side of the glass.

"Well I think that should do it," John says and I nod as I seal the lid on the bottle again.

The door to the lab opens and Dean pokes his head around.

"We good to go? Sammy and I've found something."

"Oi," the firey ginger replies, appearing beside him. "Think again."

"Okay," Dean's eyes look tired - finally he's met his match, "Sammy, Scully and I have found something." Donna looks slightly confused but is momentarily speechless.

"Where?" dad asks, perking up at the news and even the Doctor looks up to hear his reply.

"Some old tube network beneath London," Dean replies. "Bank Station, I think Sam said."

"Take this," I say, tossing the bottle over to Dean who's reflexes respond automatically to catch it, "and the Chevy and go on ahead. We'll take a cab and follow behind."

"Yes ma'am," Dean grins, giving a mock salute before allowing the door to close.

"We need to take as many of these from the store cupboard as we can find," I say and the others follow me out.

"How did you know?" John asks once we're outside the lab. "About the spray, I mean."

"It's a fairly simple deduction," I tell him. "The chemical synthesis industry has to ensure that they use a fairly weak alkali in their cleaning products so it doesn't dramatically injure their customers, however it still has to work. A weak alkali would easily neutralise the weak acidicy of the Leviathan. What got me thinking was that many of these cleaning companies have to sell products which kill, or immobolise bacteria. What's in most cleaning products? Borax."

"Impressive," dad compliments me and I have to compress a smile.

"It's just a shame you couldn't find anything which wouldn't annihilate an entire species," the Doctor retorts bitterly. John spins around to face him as we arrive at the cupboard.

"You had as much an opportunity as Sophie had to find an alternative," John hisses. "In the time we had, I think she did pretty bloody well so lay off of her." He takes a couple bottles I hand him and offers one to the Doctor. "Maybe, if you stop wasting time, we might be able to get there in time for you to do your heroics where nobody dies but for now, this is the plan. Are you in?" The Doctor grimaces and hesitates, but after a moment takes the bottle.

"Great. Then lets go."


	16. Chapter Fifteen - Leviathans IX

We manage to catch up with the Winchesters and Donna thanks to the typical London traffic, so we arrive at Bank Station together.

Unfortunately, we've arrived just as everybody is using the tube to get back to work after lunch, so making our way through the pushing crowd to the maintenace section took longer than it should have.

"We haven't had much time to speak," Donna says, appearing beside me as I begin to subtley open the door with a crow bar. I don't know if you've tried it, but anything involving a crow bar isn't subtle and the Doctor's sonic screwdriver is still in his pocket as he attempts to find us in the crowd.

"No," I reply, grimacing slightly as I pull down on the bar and the door lurches open, "I don't believe we have."

"It must be tough for you, mustn't it? Y'know - growing up with the expectation you have to be like him."

"It wasn't always like it," I admit, turning around to search for the others. The sound of the door snapping open was enough to give them enough of an idea of where to head, despite the noise almost being drowned by the sounds around us. "When mum was ..." I pause. I was going to say 'when mum was alive' but now it turns out she was never dead. It's still difficult to grasp the idea. Or perhaps I just don't want to. "When mum was still living with us," I continue, brushing over it, "we were actually quite a normal family, by most people's standards. Sure, dad was already a consulting detective and I had learned to read by the age of three, but it certainly didn't get any stranger. When she ... left us, however, things changed." I stiffen as Donna wraps an arm around me, as if to comfort me. She notices my hostility and quickly pulls it back.

"I'm ... I'm sorry," she mutters and I face her as the others come up behind her.

"There's nothing to apologise for. It all worked out."

"Ready?" Dad asks as he arrives and I nod, feeding the crowbar back into my inside jacket pocket. Picking back up my bottle of borax, we open the door and start the descent down.


	17. Chapter Sixteen - Leviathans X

It takes us fifteen minutes to get from the upper part of station to the sub level.

"The next tube will come past here in ten minutes," dad says. "How far away is the portal?"

"Judging by the evidence," Sam says, "most track walkers see their ghosts over there." He shines his torch at a section of the tunnel which widens slightly for an ease of maintenace and we jump onto the track. Donna freezes, and remains on the platform.

"Wait," she says. "They're live, aren't they?"

"Just try to avoid the tracks," the Doctor tells her, holding her hand to help her jump down.

"What are we looking for?" I ask Dean, shining my torch down the track.

"Something that shouldn't be there," Dean shrugs. "Could be anything."

"Helpful," dad responds.

As we reach the widened section of the tunnel, we stop and shine our torches around at the wet walls. Then the tracks start shaking.

"What the hell was that?" John shouts, and we look up and down the tunnel for any sign of the tube lights.

"It can't be the tube," I cry back. "It isn't due yet!"

"Lets hope it's just come early," Dean says. "Because I got a theory it ain't the train."

He's right. Even through the darkness we can see a black smoke approaching.

"That's not good," the Doctor says, fishing through his pocket for his sonic screwdriver again. "That's really not very good."

Now the rumbling comes from behind us.

"Oh bloody hell," Donna cries. "It's the bloody portal!"

"Then I guess nows the best time to see if these things work," John says, pulling out his bottle of borax and spraying the approaching smoke. A hiss is audible seems as though they're retreating. It hasn't been enough to kill them, but if we can just hold them off until the portal opens...

All of us have our sprays out now as the Leviathans advance again and fire. As the light behind us floods the tracks, we fire, enraging them.

"Duck!" the Doctor calls, and we drop down, sending the black cloud over our heads and through the portal. Once they've gone through, it closes.

"Well," Sam says, running a hand through his hair, "that went better than expected."

"Yes, but they haven't gone for good," I point out. "There's nothing stopping them from coming back through."

"Ah," the Doctor says, "I can help with that." He lifts up his sonic screwdriver and its the buzz of the device which now fills the tunnel. "There, sealed it shut. They won't be coming through there anywhere within the next millennium."

"Thanks doc," Dean says. "Any time you feel like coming over to the US and sorting that one out ..."

"Oh, come on," the Doctor smiles. "You've got that one sorted." Dean nods his thanks, then turns to us.

"Well, I suppose we can't put it back off for much longer."

"The 'dreaded' plane flight," dad says and rolls his eyes as he sees Dean's expression. "Your fear of flying is evident from the fact that you drive everywhere. It'd be a lot easier to fly."

"We can help with that, can't we Doctor?" Donna questions.

"Ah, yes. I have a rather nifty blue box which can take you boys home in an instant."

"What about my baby?" Dean asks. "I'm not leaving my baby behind."

"Oh, there's plenty of room in there for that heap of junk," I say, smiling and Dean scowls.

"Well, off we go then," John smiles and we begin the walk back to the station, and hopefully, back to normality.


	18. Chapter Seventeen - Six Thatchers I

We haven't had a proper case for months - not since we got caught up with the Leviathans. That's all resolved now, apparently, but at the cost of Dean who, according to Sam, is stuck in Purgatory. He's given up on hunting now, though I can tell that won't last long.

Dad is slowly going mad with the lack of any case, and me and John look through our emails every day because we all know that we need my father fairly sane for Christmas.

"Who've you got left to buy for?" John asks me, looking at the list I've compiled as we trudge around the shops. None of us want to be here, so we're trying to get through this as soon as we can.

"Just me and you," dad says, without even looking. "It isn't hard, especially as she doesn't have many -"

"Anyway," John interrupts, not that I would have minded if he had continued. Why would I worry about not having any friends to distract me from my school work and cases? "Where do you need to go?" I don't answer immediately, more aware of the overweight pensioner dressed up as Father Christmas who makes his way towards us.

"Ho ho ho," he puts on, clutching his stomach as he gets into it. "What a lovely family we have here." By now, the children who had been following have gathered around us. "I think we've found our winners. Now tell me dear," he says, turning to me, "if you could have anything - anything in the world - what would it be?"

"I wouldn't say no to a nice juicy murder, if I'm fair," I say and his smile falters. He was probably expecting I'd say 'a new phone' or 'shopping vouchers' so it could be simple enough to get hold of. The children around us laugh nervously as their parents pull them away. I feel some hands on my shoulder and turn to see a security guard looking down at me. "Really?" I sigh and John also lets out a sigh - of annoyance.

"Nice one Soph," he says as they lead us to the back of an awaiting police car. "Well played."

"Relax, John," dad says, ducking into the car "this is the first excitement we've in months."

"We couldn't even go Christmas shopping!" he exclaims. "Have you even ever gone out to buy each other presents?"

"We tend not to, no," I reply. "Usually too busy. Only agreed because we were bored." John shakes his head and spends the rest of the journey in silence.


	19. Chapter Eighteen - Six Thatchers II

"What've you two done now?" Mrs Hudson compains as we arrive back at Baker Street.

"You don't want to know Mrs H," John says, scowling at me. "You really don't."

"Oh dear," she says, putting an arm on my shoulder. "You can tell me all about it later."

"We have a client?" Dad frowns, smiles, then pushes past as he runs up the stairs.

"Look at him," Mrs Hudson says, tutting and shaking his head. "Off you go then." She moves out of the way to let me pass and I gallop up the stairs myself.

Waiting for us to come back is a young woman, University art student at a guess. She's standing up when I enter, introducing herself.

"Sally Barnicot," she smiles, holding a hand out for him to shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes, I just wish it had been under better circumstances."

"Obviously not that much of a pleasure," dad remarks, eyeing her clothes, "you would have changed before coming out to meet me. You still have paint on your shirt and on your face. Probably an improvement."

"Sherlock!" John hisses and dad sighs.

"Fine," he says, "what do you want?"

"Erm," she says, her confidence now knocked slightly, "well, a murder recently took place at Uni ..."

"The Colchester Conundrum?" I question, recieting the heading from the newspaper a couple of days ago.

"Yeah," she says. "He was my best friend - Pietro Venucci. Beppo found him stabbed in the pottery room."

"Beppo Rovito?" I confirm, recalling the name. "He was Pietro's boyfriend, wasn't he?" Sally nods.

"Yeah," she nods. "And I know what you're thinking: must have had a lovers tiff and killed him - I thought that myself. But the police have already been there, Miss Holmes, and they couldn't find anything. They couldn't find a murder weapon on him or anywhere within the room so in the end, they released him from custody. And it couldn't have been him - the window had been smashed. Somebody broke in."

"Not necessarily," dad says. "He could have made it look as though there was a break-in to cover up."

Sally looks at dad pleadingly. "Please. He was my friend." Dad coughs pointedly and she sighs. "Fine, maybe I wanted it to go further," she says, "but God knows that would never happen. Will you help me?" He pauses for a moment, thinking, then looks to me. I shrug in response. We haven't hada case in a while. Dad looks back up, a glimmer in his eye.

"The game is on."


	20. Chapter Nineteen - Six Thatchers III

"Right," I say, coming off the phone to Lestrade fifteen minutes later, "there was a total of four break-ins of which the target has a connection with the victim," I explain.

"Did they know what was taken?" John questions, coming out of the bedroom. He's dressed in a tweed jacket, a bowtie and courdry trousers, equiped with some glasses. Dad 'asked' John to act as the curator of a gallery, but I can't help but let out a snigger at his appearance.

"Of course they don't," dad scoffs, "because the item that was taken isn't significant enough for the target to realise that it's missing."

"You know what was taken?" John questions.

"I can't believe you haven't figured it out yet, Sophia," he says, ignoring John's question.

"I just have a few things to check out first," I lie, and dad raises an eyebrow, seeing straight through me.

"You can join John, then," he says. "You know what needs to be asked."

"The Hickman Gallery, you say?" Professor Harker, the lecturer who of whom was the victim of one of the burgularies, asks us half an hour later. "The gallery who exhibited the fake Vermeer?"

"Yes," John says, "but that's behind us now. I'm interested in displaying some of your students' art - you know, to encourage more young people to take it ... er ... more seriously." The lecturer chuckles.

"I teach one the greatest art courses in the country, Mr Watson. There's a lot of art to chose from. Can you be more specific?"

"Well I must say we were intrigued by some of the sculptures we passed on the way here," John says.

"Ah!" Harker exclaims, "some of the best turn-outs this semester." He pauses for a moment. "It's a shame - did you hear about the boy that died here a few weeks ago? Pietro Venucciti? He was one of the greatest sculptures on the course."

"Was he working on anything at the time he died?" John asks. "Perhaps we could display it as a tribute to him."

"Yes," he says, turning to his computer and typing a couple of words before turning the monitor around to show us the picture of the clay bust of Margret Thatcher - except she would appear to have devil horns. "This would have satisfied the satire section of his portfolio," he continues, "but unfortunately there aren't any left - they were given to his friends."

"Do you have the addresses?" I question, and he flicks through his notes.

"I was one of six recipients of the statues," he explains, "and I auctioned them off, so I should have the log book somewhere." He stops flicking and grabs a piece of paper. "He was a good student," he says, as he copies the addresses down, "produced some good artwork." I return a false smile as he passes me the slip of paper. "Well I'm sorry I couldn't help you any further. Maybe you could take a look at other student's artwork?"

"Sure," John replies. "We'll be in touch."


	21. Chapter Twenty - Six Thatchers IV

"Right," John says once we get outside, "what do we do now?"

"If Professor Harker bought one of the statues and was later burgled, it's likely the other buyers were also burgled," I explain as I scribble an address into the notebook and hand it to John. "Talk to the student who lives here. Ask if he bought one of the statues and if he did whether he still has it." He nods.

"Alright. I'll phone you if I find anything." I return the nod.

Because two of the targets had been students, the accommodation of the one I'm looking for isn't far from the campus - it's just a short walk to their flat.

"Er hi," the young woman who answers the door says, eyeing me suspiciously, "can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Amelia Matthews," I say. "On a matter concerning Pietro Venucitti."

"Right," she replies, frowning. "Come on in." I follow her down a short, narrow corridor into a small living room containing at least two sofa beds. "I don't mean to offend you or anything," she says, while gesturing to a plastic kettle against the wall which I decline, "but aren't you a bit young to be on the police?"

"For the police, yes," I respond. "But I'm not working for the police. I'm a private detective ... of sorts."

"Yeah, okay," she sighs, "teenage detective, got it. Not sure what'll come of it, but what do you want to know?"

"How long was your relationship with Pietro?" I ask firstly.

"Who said I was?" she questions, sounding defensive. "He was gay."

"Nobody said anything," I respond. "I simply observed the pictures of the two of you together that were hung on the wall. Holding hands, cosy little hugs - aren't they the usual signs of a close relationship?"

"Yeah ..."

"So when did you find out about his sexuality?"

"When I found him in bed with Beppo Rovito," she replies bitterly. "Hell of a way to find out."

"But you remained close?"

"Yeah," she says, shrugging. "I mean, he tried to make it up to me for a few weeks - soon gave up though. "

"Did you ever buy any of his artwork?" I question, looking around.

"Just the one," she responds. "A clay statue of Margaret Thatcher."

"Do you still have it?" I prompt and she nods.

"Yeah," she points to the window. "It's right there ..." Amelia stops and lowers her hand.

"We have reason to believe that the person who broke in a couple nights ago was the same person who killed Beppo," I say, trying to catch her attention again. "Where did the burglar break in?"

"Kitchen window." I jump up and walk briskly into the kitchen, her following behind me. A board has been put up in place of the glass, but the window itself is quite small.

"Get out," I demand, pointing towards the door. "I need to go to my mind palace." She protests, but I block her out.

I've missed something, something obvious. The glass which is still clumped in places behind the draining board confirms that someone definitely broke into the kitchen - even John could have figured that out. What else?

I reach out and pull the board from the window frame before throwing it aside.

I know who it is.


	22. Chapter Twenty One - Six Thatchers V

"There are two people out of the six who bought the statues that haven't been burgled," I explain to John over the phone. "I think I know who the murderer is, and if I'm right, he hasn't found what he's looking for yet so he'll keep taking the statues back."

"Right," John says. "So you take one, I'll take the other?"

"Sounds good," I nod and give him the address of one of the last remaining statues. "Ring me as soon as you see him."

I watch the sun set from my stakeout beneath the stairs of Thomas Cutler's house.

Naturally, he was surprised when I told him he was a potential target for a break-in, but let me in after a little persuasion.

One of the things I find most frustrating about being this intelligent and using it like I do is that most of the people I come into contact with are prone to disbelieve me because of my age. I accept that not everyone can be as clever as I am at my age, but the time it takes to explain and prove my validity is time which could be saved on solving the crime. Dad may seem strange to people, but I envy his ability to get people to accept him without having to explain himself.

As seven o'clock comes and goes, I look down at my phone. The past four break-ins had occurred at around seven, so we can assume that this isn't the target. Not tonight.

I'm right. Just a few seconds after taking my phone out, it rings.

"Where?"

"Colne causeway," John pants and I hang up before he can say any more.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two - Six Thatchers VI

Fortunately, the bridge is only a few minutes run from Cutler's place, but I stop a few meters away from it as I watch Rovito drop and smash the statue, then raise my eyes up to where John stands on the opposite side of the bridge, also out of site of our burglar.

Looking back down, I see a glint of silver by Beppo's feet - in the remains of the statue. He's seen it too. He bends over and his eyes dart over to the water flowing beneath him and he raises his arm.

"Oi!" John shouts, running forward and Beppo drops his arm and starts sprinting my way until he sees me. He holds his hand out, the blade of a penknife pointing at me but it's clear he won't use it. Trembling, he lets the knife fall to the ground and kicks it towards me. Picking it up, I notice his initials carved into the handle.

"I've called the police," John says, "they'll be here soon."

"I didn't mean to kill him," Beppo says, visably shaking. "It was an accident."

"How did it happen?" I question. "Why did you kill Pietro?"

"The statues," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't like how they represented Dame Thatcher."

"So you killed him over some statues?" I scoff.

"We fought," Beppo continues. "I tried to grab one of the statues but Pete stopped me. One minute the knife was in my hand, the next, it was buried in his chest. I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't know what to do so I pushed the knife into one of the figures and sent them into the ovens. Then I staged the break-in - smashing the windows and the like, hoping no one would notice the smash pattern."

"Impressive," John says but I shake my head.

"You made your mistake by looking for the statues," I explain. "It's disappointingly simple once you realise that the murderer isn't keeping their head down. You should have left the knife where it was, then you wouldn't be here now." I turn my head and watch the police arrive. Lestrade gets out and walks over to me as two officers head to Beppo and handcuff him.

"I think there's surplus evidence for him to get a pretty hefty murder charge," I tell him, nodding towards the fallen knife. "You can take it from here." Lestrade nods and John and I walk back the way we came.


	24. Chapter Twenty Three - Christmas I

The next few days pass without event and Christmas soon springs itself upon us. Christmas has never been a big event for us. Dad and I usually just exchange a few small gifts, watch crappy tele and scour the news for any interesting Christmas murders. But I have the feeling this year will be different. Somehow, John has persuaded us to host a Christmas get-together at our flat, meaning I've had to spend the last few weeks buying, what I deduce to be, 'good' presents for John, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as well as dad. Now I can only anticipate their reactions.

The door to my bedroom opens and I look, bleary-eyed, in the direction of the light.

"Morning," dad says softly, walking into the room and sitting on the bed beside me. I push myself up and accept the mug of hot chocolate he offers.

"Merry Christmas," I say, hoarsely, rubbing my eyes. Dad smiles.

"Merry Christmas," he replies. "We're in the living room when you're ready." I nod, clear the last of the sleep dust from my eyes and stagger to my feet. From there I make my way into the living room, wrapping a thick blue dressing-gown around me as I shiver against the cool December air.

In the absence of our tree, the presents are gathered around the fireplace. There isn't a lot, but then again, there isn't a lot of people who like us.

"Merry Christmas, Soph," John says as I pull across a seat from the table so that I can sit down with them.

Dad has already started handing out some of the presents. There was the usual card and box of chocolates from Grandma and Grandpa, a chemistry book from Molly, a new mobile - and probably the latest tracking device - from Mycroft, a Christmas jumper from John and from dad I unwrap a shoulder bag and some socks before he hands me his last one.

I notice this one is in a different paper to the others and is also less neatly wrapped so it was clearly a last minute gift. The box is fairly large and rectangular and the object inside moves very little as I shake it.

John puts a hand to his face.

"Stop Sherlock-scanning it and just open it!" he cries and I smile.

"A photo album?" I question, eyeing dad suspiciously. You only need to take a look around the flat to see dad isn't the sentimental type. As far as I know, dad has never taken any photos of me and he's certainly never displayed them. So what's in here?

"Just open it," dad advises, so I carefully detatch the sellotape from the paper and open the gift.

The album is bound in a leather cover which has clearly been hastily dusted off going by the remains of the cover. 'Holmes' is engraved in gold lettering on the front. I open it and find a photo of a couple who can't be much older than eighteen sitting together. The boy has unruly curly black hair and, despite being in the middle of a field, is dressed in a suit. His girlfriend wears a short black skirt and a low cut blouse and is sitting on his lap. I don't need to ask to know who they are.

"There's more in there," dad tells me as I tear myself away from staring at the happy couple in the book. "Of us. Of you. Whatever you may think of her now, she loved you then."

"Thank you," I tell him, my eyes watering but tears not yet falling as I stand up and wrap my arms around his neck.

John looks uncomfortable as he views our rare display of affection and clears his throat to draw us apart.

"There's still one more present," John says, pointing to another rectangular gift, this time wrapped in dark blue paper.

"Who's it for?" I ask as I sit back down and dad bends down to look.

"You," he says, handing it to me. I frown as I peer at the label. Whereas the others all had who they were from, this one has left no name. The only name written is my own.

Again I 'Sherlock-scan' it. It appears to be a hardback copy of a book, and quite an early edition as well judging by the shape of the spine.

As I peel back the paper, I see the title.

"What is it?" John asks, and I read it out.

"'The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes,'" I say and dad frowns.

"Let me see." I toss the book over to him and he studies it for a moment. "'By Arthur Conan Doyle.'"

"The kid from Mysteries in Stone - the one who wrote the book about you?"

"Apparently more than one," I reply, flicking through. I wonder how this managed to slip through. The Doctor had said that he had given us the only remaining copy. So where does this one fit in?

I spend a good part of the morning analysing every page of the book to find the reasoning behind it. Why would the Doctor send us something so cryptic? If it was so important, why not just tell us and prevent the waste of time that comes with guessing?

A few of the short stories catch my attention.

"John?" I say aloud, coming out of my mind palace after about an hour. I hadn't noticed Mrs Hudson had entered and was deep in coversation with John when I called him.

"Hmm?" he questions, looking over.

"What did you call the case we had a while ago - the comic book one?"

"Why?"

"The name, John."

"The Geek Interpreter." I smile as he says it. "What?" he asks, frowning suspiciously at my sudden happiness. "What is it?"

"The book, John," I say. I turn it around and he walks over to take a look. I look around, then frown myself. "Where's Sherlock?"

"In the bedroom," Mrs Hudson replies. "Looking through another one of those books."

"Nope, I don't see it," says John. "What am I looking at?"

"The title. What does it say?"

"'The Greek Interpreter.'" John's frown deepens. "I don't understand."

"Now look at the names of the characters: Melas, Latimer, Kemp, Kratides. Sound familiar?"

"Melas was the guy who came to see us and Kratides was the company!" John exclaims.

"Exactly. And look here: one of the only female characters in the entire series and look what she's called."

"Jesus," John cries and reads it out for Mrs Hudson's benefit. "Sophy."

"So somebody's been feeding more information to Doyle," dad says, appearing at the doorway into the kitchen, "and the Doctor has sent you the book to catch your attention and warn you."

"That's the worrying thing," I say, flicking back to the contents. "The next story is the 'Naval Treaty' - John, you nearly chose that as the title for the aluminium crutch so we've already passed that one. But after that, there's only one left. I haven't read it yet, but it doesn't sound good."

"Why?" dad asks, sweeping the book with his eyes. "What is it?"

"'The Final Problem'."


	25. Chapter Twenty Four - Christmas II

At lunch, I'm drawn away from my investigations when Mrs Hudson brings in a tray with four plates piled high with roast dinner. Remembering the promise we'd made to Mrs Hudson to be nice to her today, I set the book down and take my seat at the table.

The fire crackles in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the grey room. It's snowing outside and a fresh layer has long since covered the deliverer's footprints.

It's evident from the wrapping paper that it was a gift from the Doctor, but it's very unlikely he delivered it personally. It must have been delivered by someone who lives quite close as the absence of a postage stamp suggests it was delivered by hand.

"You alright, Sophie dear?" Mrs Hudson asks, setting down a plate in front of me. "You look a bit out of it?"

"I'm fine, thank you," I lie, but put my thoughts of the present to the side for now and fix a grin to my face. "Has John told you yet about what Sherlock put up as a Christmas decoration last week?" I ask and she frowns, shaking her head. John chuckles as he puts a roast potato into his mouth while dad looks indignantly over. "John suggested we made the place a bit more festive so asked Sherlock to buy a leaf of mistletoe," I explain, watching dad. "When he came back with the tree, John found a severed toe tied to a piece of ribbon suspended from the door frame." Mrs Hudson looks questioningly over at dad.

"Oh Sherlock," she began, disapprovingly, "what did you do that for?"

"I thought he said a 'missing toe'," dad grumbled, barely audible before raising a hand in indignation. "How was I supposed to know that he meant I should hang a clump of foliage from the ceiling. It's completely ridiculous."

"Yeah," I say, patting him on the back mockingly, "because hanging a toe from the door makes total sense."

"Says the girl who thought you hang Christmas lights on the tree after you hang the ornaments."

"Well at least I didn't burn that Christmas tree," I retort, glancing pointedly at the space where the tree had been. A few crispy needles are still embedded in the carpet as lasting evidence of the failed experiment.

"That was an accident, Sophia," dad protests and I raise an eyebrow.

"You know, an accident is, by definition, an unplanned event or circumstance," I return and dad goes quiet. Realisation crosses John's face.

"Anyone for pudding?" Mrs Hudson asks, standing up and collecting our plates before dad can argue back. I wonder if she ever regrets breaking off her relationship with her daughter - maternal instinct seems to come naturally to her.

"No thanks, Mrs H," John replies. "I'm stuffed."

"Cracker?" I ask him, breaking the staring competition between dad and I as I offer him one from beside my chair.

"I wondered where they had got to," John exclaims, gripping the opposite end to me. As he pulls, it triggers a large explosion his end of the cracker - not enough to harm him, but his face and hands are black from the spark.

Dad and I redesigned these crackers a couple weeks ago while John was out. Well, ordinary crackers are so boring - what could be the harm in livening them up a bit? I let my end of the cracker go and jump up from the table as John recovers from his shock.

"You little ..." he starts before standing up himself. I bolt for the door, dodging Mrs Hudson and her Christmas pudding as she takes it back into the kitchen. John follows me as I sprint down the stairs and through the front door into the snowy streets outside.

I get outside with enough time to gather up a ball of snow and toss it at John as he emerges from inside. It hits him square in the face. He freezes for a moment and I quickly read his body language to anticipate his next move, but he quickly squats down, gathers up his own ball and throws it over. It hits me on the forehead before I can dodge it and the snow begins to melt in my hair and trickles down my neck. That's when the war began.

Taking shelter behind a parked car, I build up an arsenal of compacted snow and peer round the side to check John's position. He has also taken shelter behind a van a little further up the road.

Other than us and a few passers by, Baker Street is like a ghost street with everybody still inside, enjoying Christmas with their family, leaving the road to be a perfect battlefield.

Maybe I should have thought twice before launching an attack on an ex-soldier. I see his reflection in the wing-mirror of the car and aim a snowball so it curves around and hits him. His face contorts as the snow melts and clears a pathway where it washes away some of the soot. In return, he stands up and shoots several over the car so they hit me in quick succession. Feeling more trickle down my back, I dart back to the door to the flats, carrying with me the last of my snowballs and throwing them as I run. Three of them hit the car but the last two manage to hit their mark as John stands up and begins chasing me, pelting more snowballs towards me as I run. As I reach the door to the flats, dad blocks my entrance allowing John to catch up with me and push a large lump of snow down the back of my shirt.

Laughing, dad and John escort me back inside and Mrs Hudson hands me a towel which I gratefully receive. I'm shivering with the cold of outside and the melted snow which has made my clothes sodden. John is a little less worse for wear but his jumper and face is nevertheless soaking wet.

"You should have seen your face!" I laugh as we march back upstairs.

"Exploding crackers?!" John questions, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't know quite what I was expecting when having Christmas with the Holmes'." He looks at me and reads my expression. "No, you're not using them tonight."

"You spoil all my fun," I smile as we reach the top of the stairs. "Who's for a game of Cluedo?"


	26. Chapter Twenty Five - Christmas III

Dad takes Professor Plum from the box and places him on the board before John takes Colonel Mustard out and does the same. Left with little choice, I take Miss Scarlett out from the box and place the others in their respective places on the board.

"Everyone clear on the rules?" John asks as he deals the cards out and places the last three in centre.

"John, we're detectives," I point out. "What could be so difficult about this?"

John shrugs so we begin to play. The key to this game is deduction and that's our strong point. I look through my cards and note down the ones I have. As I have Miss Scarlett, I start first and direct my pawn towards the Lounge.

"Professor Plum, candlestick, Lounge?" I ask.

"Wrong," dad says and John looks up while he sifts through his cards.

"You don't need to say anything. Just find a card she mentioned, if you have it, and show it to her."

"What use are the cards if we're missing one?" dad asks and John frowns.

"How d'you mean?"

"There's only six character cards when there are seven characters. Miss Scarlett couldn't have done it because, judging by the mess in the library, she was fighting with her mother, Mrs Peacock, which rules her out as well. Colonel Mustard had his revolver stolen from beneath his pillow judging by the absence of the outline in his pocket. Judging by his positioning on the board, he believed it to be Professor Plum who had taken it, but he was discussing current affairs in the study with Reverend Green while Mrs White was in the kitchen preparing their evening coffee. The most likely explanation is that the victim killed himself with Colonel Mustard's revolver in the lounge as it was the room which was furthest away from everyone else at the time."

"You can't be serious," John questions, looking dumbfounded.

"He is," I respond.

"You do realise it's against the rules of the game for the victim to be the murderer, don't you?"

"It's the only logical explanation."

"But it's not in the rules -"

"Well then the rules are wrong!" dad cries, taking the steak knife Mrs Hudson had used earlier to carve the turkey and pinning the board against the wall with it.

We sit in silence for a moment, each of us anticipating the reaction of another. Eventually, John gets up and goes into the bathroom.

He hasn't drunk enough yet today to warrant another trip to the toilet, so it's more likely he's washing his face of the soot from the exploding cracker so he can go out. Not that many places are going to be open, but he'll make the excuse of going to pick up some last minute essentials for the party he's cajoled us into having tonight. But he feels the same as I do - if he spends another minute in this flat, he's likely to kill dad.

Somehow he always manages to spoil Christmas. I don't remember a year we've had where we haven't ended up falling out by the end of the day. There's something different about he Holmes family and I'm not always sure it's a good difference.

Sure enough, John emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later.

"I'm just going to pop to the shops to pick up some bits for tonight," John tells us pointlessly. Dad is still standing, looking at the game board emotionlessly - most likely having not heard John speak. He looks to me. "Did you wanna come with me?"

"No," I reply and gesture to the the book. "I should get back to work."


	27. Chapter Twenty Six - Scandal VII

For the next couple hours after John comes back, we all contribute towards setting up - including dad who has broken out of his sulking and has returned to a festive mood.

I've never been to a Christmas party, so I don't know what to expect but where there's people there's usually ridicule - usually from us.

"Ooh." I turn around to see Mrs Hudson bringing up a pair of antler headbands. "Looks lovely up here." I see her gaze up to the window where the fairy lights are strung before my gaze drops to the street outside.

"It's still snowing," I notice and John curses.

"I hope it clears by tomorrow," he says, also looking out of the window, "I have to be in Reading tomorrow to see Harry."

"Pound in the jar, Doctor Watson," I smirk, nodding towards John's 'swear jar' on the table. Beside it is dad's 'rude jar' and my 'excessive showoff jar'. We take Mrs Hudson out for dinner when all are filled.

"Oh God she's here," John says drawing away from the window again and coming over to me. "Be nice." I shrug and watch in amusement as he hurries downstairs to open the door for his dearly beloved.

"Oh Sophie dear," Mrs Hudson says, calling me over to where she's perched herself in John's chair, "I bought these for you and Sherlock."

"Aw thanks," I say, taking them and tossing them out of the living room window so they fall just behind John's girlfriend.

We've had a lot more Christmas cards this year - they clutter every surface available. There are a few more decorations up as well than we would usually have, though the absence of the tree is painfully noticable.

"Just through there," I hear John say from the landing, gesturing for a tall dark-haired woman in about her thirties through to the living room. "Can I get you anything?"

"Wine please, John," she smiles, "if you have any."

"I'll have a glass too John," Mrs Hudson calls. "Hello dear."

"Hi," she replies awkwardly, sitting down hesitantly, aware that I'm staring at her.

This one is the third since Sarah and to be honest, she is out of John's league by quite a bit. Her complexion suggests indoor work, but the way she holds herself doesn't point to an office job. Judging by her short-heeled shoes, her job requires her to do a lot of standing yet still look professional. When she talks, she speaks in an intelligable accent meaning that it is essential for her to convey herself clearly. From all of this, I can tell she is a primary school teacher - younger years going on her soft features and kind attitude.

"Here you go Jeanette," John says passing her a glass before handing Mrs Hudson another.

"Thanks," she smiles, pulling a small, wrapped box from her bag. "Merry christmas," he takes the gift from her and kisses her cheek. I roll my eyes.

"Lestrade," dad says as I hear a car pull up outside and sure enough, Lestrade appears at the door just a minute later.

"Alright?" he smiles, holding out a bag of presents which I take. "Merry Christmas."

"Hi mate," John smiles, pouring up another glass of wine. "Drink?"

"That'd be great, cheers," Lestrade replies, taking the glass, then, noticing John's girlfriend, walks over to introduce himself.

"Any chance of a song Sherlock?" asks Mrs Hudson gesturing towards the violin in the corner. "Something christmassy?" I raise an eyebrow at him and he returns a weary look as he holds the instrument to his chin.

I begin to sing as dad begins to play. It's something we've tried recently in the few weeks that we've been without a case and, surprisingly, we've found I have a half-decent alto singing voice which I use now to accompany dad's rendition of 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas'. Lestrade whistles in appreciation as we finish.

"Lovely!" Mrs Hudson exclaims, "Sophie, that was lovely!"

"Marvellous!" John says, drunkness slurring his words slightly as he swaps Mrs Hudson's wineglass for a teacup. We take a little bow, which seems to amuse Mrs Hudson as she starts giggling tipsily.

"I wish you could have worn the antlers!"

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson," dad answers and I cast another look out of the window from which they fell.

John's new girlfriend comes back into the living room with some of the 'munchies' he said we needed: mince pies, slices of cakes and a various assortment of crisps and sweets. I take a mince pie before she offers the tray to dad.

"No thank you, Sarah," he says in an obvious attempt to be poliet but her face falls at the mistake. John is quickly by her side as she turns away.

"Uh, no, no, no, no, no," John ushers. "He's not good with names."

"No-no-no, I can get this," dad protests and she puts the tray down before straightening up, her arms crossed as she glares at dad. "No," he corrects himself, "Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots; and then the one with the nose; and then ... who was after the boring teacher?"

"Nobody," she responds bitterly.

"Jeanette!" dad exclaims, grinning falsely. "Ah, process of elimination." I smile sweetly at her as she looks at me, clear annoyance painted over her face. They'll have a domestic at some point tonight, I realise as John awkwardly pulls her away. "Oh, dear Lord," dad remarks and I glance up at the doorway where Molly Hooper stands, carrying two full bags of presents, smiling shyly. I wack dad softly and he frowns at me. She's wearing her hair differently, I notice idly, it suits her.

"Hello, everyone," she says. "Sorry, hello." John walks over to her to be the friendly host and greet her, smiling. "Er, it said on the door just to come up," she explains as everyone says their greetings. Dad rolls his eyes at me.

"Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other. How wonderful," he exclaims sarcastically. I can see Molly looking over towards dad as he turns to put the violin down, starting to take her coat and scarf off. John stands beside her, ready to take the coat as she opens it up.

"Let me, er ... holy Mary!" John exclaims, gawping down at a tight fitting black dress. It's an obvious attempt to please dad, but he doesn't seem to have noticed her attire yet.

"Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" she asks, lapping up the attention, albeit shyly.

"No stopping them, apparently," dad says, clearing a seat at the dining table and sitting down with John's laptop. I stay stood up analysising the bag of presents in her hand.

"It's the one day of the year where they have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!" Mrs Hudson laughs and Molly titters nervously.

"Have a seat," John says, placing a chair by the door for her. Molly smiles in thanks and takes it.

"John?" Dad calls and I spin around, frowning over dad's shoulder at the screen.

"Mmm?" John questions, walking over to us and leaning over his other shoulder to look.

"The counter on your blog," dad points out, "still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five." One thousand eight hundred and ninety-five, I repeat mentally. 1895. Could be a date? With the stories set around this time, it could be.

"Ooh, no!" John says in mock anger, "Christmas is cancelled!" Dad points to the side bar which features pictures of dad and I in our dear stalker and Victorian headwear.

"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" Dad exclaims.

"People like the hats," John insists and I raise an eyebrow.

"No they don't," I reply.

"What people?" Dad asks, but John ignores him as goes back to socialise. I continue to stare at the number - I'm convinced it's a date - and file it away. It has to mean something.

"How's the hip?" I hear Molly ask as I look away.

"Ooh, it's atrocious," Mrs Hudson responds, "but thanks for asking."

"I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems." An awkward silence falls at the faliled joke and Molly flushes red. "Oh, God," she says in a fluster. "Sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly," dad chides.

"No. Sorry," she apologises and takes the glass of red wine Lestrade hands her. It's clear he finds her attractive in the dress - his entire body language gives his thoughts away.

"Thank you," she smiles, "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."

"That's first thing in the morning, me and the wife. We're back together. It's all sorted." There's an edge of regret in his voice but he manages a smile.

"No," I respond and Lestrade's face hardens, his grin becomming fixed, "she's sleeping with my P.E. teacher."

"And John," Molly moves the subject onto John who has finally sat himself down on the arm of the sofa, beside Jeanette. "I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?"

"Yeah," he confirms.

"Sherlock was complaining -" dad raises an eyebrow before Molly corrects herself "... saying."

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act," John says. "She's off the booze."

"Nope," dad corrects. I've never met Harry, but Mycroft keeps tabs on all associates of ours. It just so happens that John's sister was held in a drunk tank a few weeks ago.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John snaps. But dad has the taste for it now after a day of pretending to be nice. He looks across to Molly and her bags of presents.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," he remarks.

"Sorry, what?" Molly responds, blushing furiously.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

"Take a day off," John complains, exasperated.

"Shut up and have a drink," Lestrade says, placing a glass down beside dad and handing me a second. I smile my thanks and take a small sip. We all know about Molly's crush on dad and it's clear they're trying to save her the embarrassment of him revealing it like this, but it isn't working.

"Oh, come on," dad says. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag - perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He stands up and walks over to Molly and points out the messy packages. Obviously wrapped them up last minute before leaving for here. "It's for someone special, then." He picks up the neatly-wrapped present and studies it closer. "The shade of red echoes her lipstick - either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all." I see John look anxiously up at Molly as she squirms uncomfortabley and I step forward to stop him. "That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing." He smiles smugly at John and Jeanette and starts to turn over the gift tag attached to the present as I reach him. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts ... " he trails off as he looks down at the label. Written in red ink, Molly has written:

Dearest Sherlock

Love Molly xxx

Dad stands, frozen for a second as the realisation dawns on him.

"You always say such horrible things," Molly says, and I feel almost sorry for her as she fights back the tears of humiliation. "Every time. Always. Always." Dad turns away but I put a hand on his arm.

"Go to her," I say softly and he closes his eyes and for a moment he looks like the daddy I remember from my early childhood. The regret, the emotion, the hurt can all be read on hid face for a brief moment before the wall comes back up and he turns to her.

"I am sorry," he says sincerely, and John looks up, startled at his reaction. "Forgive me." Dad steps closer to Molly. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he says softly and leans forward and gently kisses her on the cheek. I smile at the pair of them and appreciate the moment.

Then dad's text alert sounds and Molly gasps in shock.

"No!" she says, "That wasn't ... I - I didn't ..."

"No, it was me," dad admits, drawing away and ending the moment.

"My God, really?!" Lestrade exclaims and I almost lose my composure at the timing.

"What?!" Molly asks, completely confused at the situation.

"My phone," dad explains, slipping his hand into his pocket for the phone as John's eyes narrow.

"Fifty-seven?" John says, uncertainly.

"Sorry, what?" dad asks, absent mindedly as he flicks the screen across to find the message.

"Fifty-seven of those texts - the ones I've heard," John explains.

"You've been counting?" I question in disbelief as dad walks over to the mantelpiece and picks up a small box wrapped in blood-red paper and tied with black rope-like string. I remember what dad said about Molly's lipstick which triggers the image of my mother and her blood-red lips. It's from my mum.

"'Scuse me," dad says, walking towards the kitchen. My heart is in my mouth.

"What - what's up, Sherlock?"

"I said excuse me," dad repeats.

"D'you ever reply?" John calls after him, but dad ignores him and walks into the bedroom.

The box dad took with him was around fifteen centimeters long and ten centimenters wide - almost the exact dimensions of mum's phone. She told us when I last saw her that her phone was her life. If that was the case, why would she give it to us if she wasn't dead. It would explain why dad excused himself.

John stands up and follows him out, but I retreat to the dining table and look out of the window. I shouldn't be feeling like this; caring is not an advantage - but it isn't voluntary either. My mother was dead to me years ago. Why couldn't she just have stayed dead? I let a tear trickle down my cheek and then a second as I realise nobody is looking to care.


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven - Scandal VIII

Dad leaves with Molly ten minutes later. They've found her body, but dad says nothing to me as he goes so I continue to sit at the dining table, watching the clock tick down to twelve.

"Another drink Soph?" Lestrade asks, taking the empty glass from the table in front of me back into the kitchen and I nod.

For ten years I thought my mum was dead, then she stalks back into my life, emotionally exploits me, and leaves again. It's probably for the best that I continue the night senseless.

My phone buzzes from beside me and a humiliating image of Mycroft Holmes appears on the screen.

"Uncle," I say into the phone, taking the glass Lestrade offers me as I pass him, heading for the hall. "I trust I have to hear it from you."

"He hasn't told you?" Mycroft says ponderously. "The day I fathom the mind of your father is the day that pigs fly."

"I thought you frequently travelled by air," I say to harsh silence.

"I hear you've joined in with the festivities," Mycroft says sourly. "How many glasses has it been? Two, three?"

"On my fourth," I say, taking a sip. "It's Christmas."

"You're sixteen."

"It's Christmas," I repeat. "Anyway, you didn't phone to lecture me. What's happening?"

"My brother has always been one to stray a little closer to the dark side than his family would have prefered, yet his drug habbit appeared to worsen when your mother died."

"And as I seem to recall, you weren't the first to step in to help."

"Of course not," Mycroft replies, seemingly suprised that I had an issue. "It was his mess to get out of."

"I was three years old," I hiss back at him. "I didn't know what the hell was going on."

"My apologies," he says, though it is clearly fake. "As I was saying: your mother's death caused your father to stumble through the next few years hardly knowing which way was up. Now Miss Adler shows up and somehoe manages to achieve something we've all been attempting to get him to do for years - move on. Sherlock clearly felt some attraction towards Miss Adler else -"

"She was my mother." I say quietly, though it's enough to stop him from speaking. "Irene Adler was my mother." For the first time in his life, Mycroft is stunned into silence. "If you hadn't have been too busy pretending we didn't exist and more time protecting our family, you would have known." After a moment he speaks again.

"You have my sincerest apologies. If I had any idea -"

"You would have saved her?" I question. "No you wouldn't." I pause for a minute and he doesn't speak again and my mind catches up to what he had been saying previously. "So you he might relapse tonight?"

"It's entirely possible," Mycroft replies. "He's still not smoking?"

"For the moment."

"In a moment, I will offer him a cigarette," he explains. "If he takes it, we'll know tonight is a danger night."

"Why choose now to help? You could have prevented all of this if you had been with us from day one."

"I cannot resolve the mistakes of the past but I can make sure they don't happen again.At the end of the day, Sophia, Sherlock is my brother and you're my niece. It would break my heart to see anything happen to the either of you."

"It seems I'm not the only one who's been drinking," I reply, not knowing what else to say. He isn't prone to outbursts of family compassion.

"I'll call you after I've spoken to your father," he says. I'm taking the phone away from my ear when he speaks again. "And Sophia: try to ease back on the drink." I end the call before he can lecture me further and go back into the kitchen.

"Sophie -" John says, coming back up the stairs after seeing dad off.

"I know," I reply. "I've spoken to Mycroft - he seems to think it could trigger a relapse. He's going to offer him a cigarette and if he takes it, we'll know a bit more about his condition. So we need to ..."

"Ensure that anything like that is found and removed," John nods. "We should probably get rid of Lestrade."

"I've got that, you make a start." John nods again and I follow him back into the living room. "I don't suppose we could get away with naming this party a success," I sigh as I sidle up to Lestrade.

"Nah," he replies. "Just got a new record to beat."

"Of five minutes," I laugh. "Sorry it's been such a let down. I suppose you'll be wanting to head home and start packing."

"Yeah, sorry, d'y'mind?"

"Not at all," I say, going back into the kitchen and collecting another drink.

"Thanks for the drinks."

"You're welcome," I respond, then listen for the front door to close before making my way to the bedroom to search for the emergency packet of cigarettes and any drugs which may be lying around.

But they aren't in the usual places. I search through each draw, ensuring I put everything back according to dad's very specific index, and scan the carpet for any sections which have been cut out to provide easy access to a loose floorboard below but there's nothing.

After half an hour of looking, I hear John's phone go and join him in the living room.

"No," John responds to a question I can't hear. "Did he take the cigarette?" He pauses to listen and his eyes loose their tipsy sparkle. "Shit," he says before turning to me. "He's coming. Ten minutes."

"There's nothing in the bedroom," I reply, shrugging.

"Looks like he's clean," John says, back into the phone, "We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?" I wait, looking at John's face for any sign of what Mycroft is saying. "I've got plans," he protests but then I hear the line end and despite John's attempts to call his name, Mycroft doesn't respond.

So instead, he takes the phone down from his ear and, chewing the inside of his mouth, walks across to Janine and sits down beside her.

"I am really sorry..." he starts.

"You know, my friends are so wrong about you," she replies.

"Hmm?" John returns, frowning.

"You're a great boyfriend."

"Okay, that's good," he says, looking startled, though I can see where this is going. "I mean, I always thought I was great."

"And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man." John groans and tries to talk to her.

"Jeanette, please -"

"No, I mean it," she says, bitterly as she slides her shoes back on. "It's heart-warming. You'll do anything for him - and he can't even tell your girlfriends apart. " She stands and heads for the door, John following her like a lost puppy as she puts on her coat.

"No," he protests, "I'll do anything for you. Just tell me what it is I'm not doing. Tell me!"

"Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!"

"I'll walk your dog for you," John says, and I close my eyes at his stupidity. "Hey, I've said it now. I'll even walk your dog ... "

"I don't have a dog!"

"No, because that was ... the last one. Okay."

"Jesus!" she exclaims, picking up her bag and storming out.

"I'll call you," John calls.

"No!"

"Okay." Exasperated, John turns back into the room as she runs down the stairs.

"That really wasn't very good, was it?" I ask him, trying to contain myself as John bites his lip.

"How're you holding up?" he asks, quickly moving on.

"Great," I say before going back into the kitchen for another drink. I'm passed out on the sofa when dad comes home.


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight - Scandal IX

I go through the remaining few days of December numb. I haven't eaten, despite John's attempts and I haven't slept in days.

I suppose I should be grateful dad hasn't relapsed. He's not in a great state but at least he's not drugged up. If it weren't for the fact I'd have to go outside, I would find a way of sourcing something to forget what happened on Christmas.

On New Years Eve, dad begins to compose a lament in her honour. John walks into the living room as he plays and sighs as he sees me in the same curled up position on the sofa that I've been for the last few days. I see Mrs Hudson look pointedly at John as she carries away another set of untouched meals but John looks like he's given up trying to get us to eat as he puts his jacket on. Dad stops playing and makes a notation on his music.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson compliments. "Haven't heard that one before."

"You composing?" John asks.

"Helps me to think," dad replies before beginning to play again.

"What are you thinking about?"

Dad stops playing suddenly and spins around to point to John's laptop. "The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Yeah, it's faulty," John says. "Can't seem to fix it."

"Faulty," dad repeats as he takes out mum's phone, "or you've been hacked and it's a message." He types the number in but the phone beeps it's refusual. The momentary glimmer of enthusiasm in his eyes dies again. "Just faulty." He turns away again and continues playing.

"Right," John says, "Well, I'm going out for a bit." Neither of us respond so he turns and walks into the kitchen to speak to Mrs Hudson before leaving.

"Can I get you anything, Sophie?" Mrs Hudson asks as she comes back in. "Hot chocolate? Something to eat?"

"Some silence," I mutter and Mrs Hudson shakes her head pitifully before walking back into the kitchen. Dad stops playing again, his attention focused on something outside. Then, he puts his violin down, disappears into the bedroom for his coat, before following John out. Once again, the flat is plunged into silence.

The only thing that has kept my mind active these last few days is the mystery of the book I was given for Christmas. The Doctor once advised me to never read ahead on our life story but to read as it happens. The only thing I have to go on is the title - 'The Final Problem'. It seems to heavily imply my father's death, but without being able to read it, I won't know how to stop it.

I'm jolted back into reality as the door slams shut downstairs and I hear Mrs Hudson scream. I sit up slightly as I hear unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs followed by a heavy thudding - she's being dragged upstairs and shouts out for help as she is.

I spring into action immediately and launch myself towards the table and pick up the gun which lies there before positioning myself at the doorway. The Americans who invaded my mum's house a couple months ago turn the corner.

"Let her go," I say, disengaging the safety as they look up.

"Put the gun down, Miss Holmes," their leader, Neilson, instructs. "Put it down and nobody needs to get hurt." I lower it slowly as they reach the top of the stairs and they pull Mrs Hudson to her feet.

"Oh Sophie," she whimpers, "I'm so sorry."

"It'll be alright," I reassure her. "Sherlock will be back soon. I'll warn you, he's quite unpredictable at the moment. Who can tell what he'll do if he finds you've hurt either of us."

"Shut up and get in there," he says, gesturing into the living room. I look to Mrs Hudson and form an imaginary mobile phone so she can see before passing it off as moving some hair from my face. She nods subtley as she's escorted into the room.

"Do you mind," Mrs Hudson sobs as they sit us down on two chairs they've placed in front the fireplace, "if I go to the bathroom? Clean myself up." Neilson judges her threat for a moment before turning to one of his men.

"Take this one to the bathroom," he tells him and I watch as he leads a sobbing Mrs Hudson to the bathroom and stands outside to wait.

"I'd say it was a pleasure to see you again," I say as I'm tied to the seat, "but I try not to make a habbit of lying." I breathe out and flex my muscles slightly to make myself as big as possible as they tie my bonds. It'll help in a minute because when I relax, the bonds will be looser than my arms so I should be able to slip out of them.

"Where's the camera phone which once belonged to Miss Adler?" he begins.

"What?" I say in mock disapproval, "no pleasentaries?" He gives me a hard look and I roll my eyes. "I have absolutely no idea where it is. Still with her, I'm assuming. Why, is it lost?"

"Something tells me you're not telling me the truth," Neilson growls, stepping forward and grabbing me by the chin. "Now start speaking or I'll see if other methods of persuasion will work better." He pushes my head away roughly as he lets go but I look back at him and meet me in the eye.

"Yeah? Good luck with that." I pause for a moment before continuing. "See, I couldn't care less whether I live or die anymore but I know several people who do and will have you killed within a matter of hours if you hurt a hair on my head. Try your best, Neilson, because the truth is I don't know where the phone is and that's all you're getting from me."

Neilson nods his understanding as the bathroom door opens. I wasn't completely lying - I have no idea where dad put the phone earlier but Mrs Hudson would have seen. She should have it now, but I still don't know where it is, exactly.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson," he smiles. "Thank you for joining us. Miss Holmes doesn't seem to care if we take her life. Maybe she'll be more motivated to speak if it was somebody else's life on the line." Neilson pulls out his gun and places it against Mrs Hudson's head.

"You pull that trigger and you lose your only leverage over me," I remind him. "Never start with your last resort. Don't they teach you that?!"

"Shut up, Miss Holmes," Neilson says before he swings the gun around and hits me in the head with it, knocking me out instantaneously.


	30. Chapter Twenty Nine - Scandal X

I wake a little while later, my jaw throbbing from the blow. Beside me, Mrs Hudson is trembling. Her right cheek is bleeding after being hit, her wrists look bruised from the bonds and her cardigan is torn. I look over to her to pass over some reassurement just as one of the men stir from their position at the window.

"Sir, he's here."

Neilson nods to the other agent and a moment later they're both positioned behind us, a gun to each of our heads.

I hear the door open downstairs. No doubt dad's already noticed the signs of disturbance on the keyhole and the situation will become clearer as he gets inside.

Mrs Hudson continues to sob as he climbs the stairs slowly, in no rush to confront us.

When he reaches the top, dad strolls casually into the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson cries when she sees him. "Sherlock!"

"Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson," he advises. "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." Dad looks up at Neilson before continuing. "What a tender world that would be."

"Oh, please, sorry, Sherlock," she continues to sob, but they ignore her.

"I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes," Neilson says, holding his position behind me.

"Then why don't you ask for it?" Dad walks closer to us and holds a comforting hand out to Mrs Hudson and she grasps at it desperately. He checks her bruising before Neilson continues.

"I've been asking this one. She doesn't seem to know anything." Dad surveys the damage done to me from his where he stands, still in front of Mrs Hudson. "And this one," he gestures to me, "refuses to speak what she knows. But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr Holmes?" Dad's eyes transfer from me to Neilson, but he isn't deducing him, from what I can tell.

"I believe I do," dad responds shortly and Mrs Hudson whimpers as he releases her hands and straightens up, putting his hands behind his back again.

"Oh, please, Sherlock," she pleads, but is ignored again as dad speaks.

"First, get rid of your boys," dad instructs and Neilson angles his head slightly in confusion.

"Why?"

"I dislike being outnumbered," he explains. "It makes for too much stupid in the room."

"I hope you're not counting me in that," I challenge, glaring playfully at him. He grins back at me.

"I wouldn't dare."

After a moment, Neilson glances at the other men.

"You two, go to the car."

"Then get into the car and drive away," dad continues, his seriousness returning as he looks back to Neilson. "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work. Next, you can stop pointing that gun at her."

"So you can point a gun at me?"

Dad steps back and spreads his arms out beside him.

"I'm unarmed."

"Mind if I check?" Neilson responds, suspiciously. He's right to be suspicious. Dad knew our situation up here, he wouldn't have come unarmed.

"Oh, I insist." Neilson steps away from us and towards dad and I allow myself to relax so the bonds I had made sure were loose earlier were big enough for me to slip through.

He starts patting dad's pockets down as he circles him but as he starts patting his back, dad rolls his eyes at us, bends his right arm back in towards himself and whips out a cleaning spray whch he uses to spray Neilson in the eyes with as he twists around.

I slip my hands out as Neilson cries out in both surprise and in pain before dad then rears back and headbutts him in the face. Neilson falls unconsciously back onto the coffee table and Sherlock triumphantly flips the can into the air.

"Moron," dad says as he slams the can onto the table and hurries over, just as I make a start on untying the ropes around my body.

He tuts in annoyance as he sees the damage done to both of us, but it's clear Mrs Hudson came the worse off.

"Oh, thank you," she cries as dad comforts her.

"You're all right now," he says as he caresses her face, "you're all right."

Dad looks back over his shoulder at Neilson as I come free and I step out from the ropes to help untie Mrs Hudson.

I help her cross the room to the sofa. I'm weak from a lack of food and the blow, but we manage to make it over to the other side and sit down while dad hauls Neilson's limp body over to the chair Mrs Hudson was in a moment ago and reties the ropes - this time around the American.

Dad scribbles down a note on a piece of scrap paper and trots downstairs. I hear the door open as he pins it outside before returning upstairs.

As Neilson begins to stir, I notice his nose is broken and bleeding from the impact of the headbut but I have a feeling he's going to leave here with more than that by the time we're finished with him.

"I don't know how you can be so brave," Mrs Hudson says, tearfully.

"Brave?" Neilson snorts. "The girl has a death wish. I'd hardly call that bravery."

"Oh do shut up," I reply but walk across into the kitchen and pull out some duct tape which I use to gag him for extra measure. I step back and admire my work as dad comes back up, but Neilson fixes an unblinking glare on me.

Dad picks up the pistol Neilson dropped and keeps it aimed towards the American as he dials Scotland Yard.

"I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade. Put me through." He listens for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Dread to think what would happen if there was an actual emergency," dad mutters to nobody in particular as they put him on hold. He takes a seat as he waits.

I hear the door open again downstairs and John hurries up the staircase and into the living room.

"What's going on?" he questions but stops at the sight of Neilson. "Jeez. What the hell is happening?"

"Mrs Hudson and Sophie been attacked by an American," dad responds, still holding the phone to his ear. "I'm restoring balance to the universe."

John immediately hurries over to sit down next to Mrs Hudson to comfort her.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson," he says putting an arm around her while glaring at Neilson. "My God. Are you all right? Jesus, what have they done to you?"

"And I'm fine as well," I say sarcastically, "thanks for asking."

Mrs Hudson breaks down in tears again.

"Oh, I'm just being so silly," she sobs, covering her eyes with her hands.

"No, no," John replies, pulling her closer as dad gets to his feet again.

"Downstairs," he tells him. "Take her downstairs and look after her."

John nods and stands up before helping her to her feet.

"All right," he says gently, "it's all right. I'll have a look at that."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she reassures him as she walks out the room. John steps towards us.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?"

"I expect so," dad replies. "Now go."

John looks to me.

"I want you downstairs as well in a minute," he says. "I need to check that jaw."

"I'll be down in a minute," I promise. "Just got a few things to sort out here first though." He nods understandingly and, for a moment, Neilson has three death glares focused on him before John turns and walks away again.

At last, Lestrade picks up.

"Lestrade," dad says into the phone. "We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance." I can hear him asking whether we're okay and dad breaks eye contact with Neilson as he walks across to the dining table and lays the pistol down on it. "Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we're fine," he reassures him. "No, it's the, uh, it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured." I watch Neilson's face fall slightly as he becomes nervous of what's to come. "Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung," dad answers as he looks over his shoulder at him. "He fell out of a window." Still looking into Neilson's eyes, he hangs up.


	31. Chapter Thirty - Scandal XI

Five minutes later, Neilson lies slumped in the chair, dark rings around his eyes being just some of the emerging bruises after dad beat into him.

Sometimes it scares me how quickly he can transform from man to beast, contented only when he has inflicted a critical amount of pain. It reminds me how thin the line is between good and bad and how well we tread it. We could be the world's most infamous criminals and yet we elect to be detectives.

We told Lestrade that Neilson had fallen out of the window, so we carry him over to the kitchen window and let him fall before landing on Mrs Hudson's bins with a groan.

Apparently Lestrade's 'least irritating officer' is himself, as a little while later he arrives with the ambulance and some officers so we come out to meet him.

"And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?" Lestrade asks as we watch them load Neilson onto the ambulance in a stretcher before pulling away.

"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector," dad replies. "I lost count." Not bothering to comment, Lestrade walks away shaking his head, a wry grin on his face.

"I should probably go in and see John," I say a few moments later. "It would be disappointing if I couldn't talk because of the pain!" Dad chuckles and nods.

"I'll come in with you," he says before following me inside and past the staircase to arrive at 221 A.

John is tending to Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. She still looks shaken, but John has cleaned her wound so she should make a quick recovery.

"She'll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight," John says, gesturing for me to take a seat beside him on one side of the small table. "We need to look after her."

"No," Mrs Hudson protests.

"Of course," dad agrees, "but she's fine."

"No, she's not," John disagrees, looking away from my jaw for a moment to look at dad. "Look at her."

Dad doesn't respond and chooses instead to raid a mince pie from Mrs Hudson's fridge.

"Can you get another one out, please," John asks, then catches the one dad tosses over. "Right, try and chew some of that, and see if you can tell whether the pain gets worse when eating." I comply and bite carefully into the pie. "She's got to take some time away from Baker Street," John continues. "She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders."

Dad frowns at John as he kicks the fridge door shut and bites into his mince pie.

"Don't be absurd," he replies, mouth full as he speaks.

"She's in shock, for God's sake," John exclaims, "and all over some bloody stupid camera phone. Where is it, anyway?"

"Safest place I know," dad replies and wipes the crumbs from mouth. We look across to Mrs Hudson who reaches down inside her top and pulls the phone out of her bra before handing it to dad.

"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot," she laughs before explaining. "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."

Dad tosses it into the air before putting it in his coat pocket.

"Thank you." He looks at John. "Shame on you, John Watson."

John looks up, puzzled, as I finish off the pie.

"Shame on me?!"

"Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street?" dad wraps a protective arm around her shoulders before pulling her closer. "England would fall." She laughs and strokes his hand and John watches with a smile as he recognises the strong bond we share with our landlady.

"So how's that jaw?" he asks after a moment.

"Eating is certainly more painful, no doubt because of the increased pressure against it," I explain. "It doesn't feel like a break, though."

"I'd agree," John nods, looking closer at my jaw. "There's a slight discolouration around your jaw. I reckon it's nothing more than a bruising. Eat soft food for a few days and it'll get better." I nod in acknowledgement and stand up.

"Well I don't know about you," I say, "but after today, I need a drink."

"We've got a Scotch upstairs I bought for tonight," John replies. "You can have a glass of that."

"Do you want me to bring you all up some hot chocolate later?" Mrs Hudson asks.

"No thanks Mrs H," John shakes his head, "though you're welcome to join us upstairs."

"I promised Mrs Turner next door I'd pop over," she replies. "But thanks anyway."

"Right then," John says, also standing up. "See you next year!"

"Happy new year," she smiles as we show ourselves out.

Dad doesn't follow us upstairs, but John is halfway up before he realises.

"Sherlock?" He looks back as dad puts a hand on the door. "Where're you going?"

"There's more out there wanting the phone," dad explains, "and chances are they'll be watching us. Neilson was with two other men when he came here today - they drove off but they won't have gone far. They need to see we don't have it so we can divert the attention away frome here - the distractions are interfering with my work." Although that reason is true, I can tell it's not his main one. The events of today shook him, he's realised he can't keep us all safe.

"Alright," John nods. "Do you need us?"

"Safer if you don't know,"he replies before turning the handle and leaving. John turns and exchanges a look with me before we continue up the stairs. There's something in his eyes as his gaze lingers on me for a moment that makes me curious: it's as if he was debating telling me something but decided not to.

Upstairs, I switch the television on and find Crimewatch. It's a special edition - one looking over the big cases from this year - and the case they're talking about at the moment is the one which showcased how we were no longer private detectives: the Aluminium Crutch.

"When the audience arrived for Deborah Challis's Terror By Night, they were expecting a mystery but what they saw quickly turned into a tradgedy." The programme cut to a picture of Matthews, the victim. "Michael Matthews had the role of the detective that night, but his death paved the way for two amateur detectives to enter the limelight." And there it is: the picture of us in those ridiculous hats.

"What is it with those hats?" I demand, turning over as they start describe our latest cases.

"They're iconic," John shrugs. "They made you unique from everyone else."

"No," I disagree. "What made us unique was we were actually capable of solving crimes. But as always, regular people have to simplify it down so that it loses all meaning and becomes something else. I think I prefered it when we were private detectives."

"You still are to a great extent," John replies. "Just got to avoid the big cases and the attention will go - it always does."

"It's not always that easy." I take the glass he offers to me and take a sip. John flicks through the programme guide and grins as he finds one to watch.

"Watch this," he says, turning over to it. "Probably won't be of much use to us now, but it's worth the watch." The name of the movie comes up on the screen and I nod in understanding. The classic theme tune of Doctor Who plays and I realise it must be the film John had mentioned to me about.

We're about an hour into it when I hear the door open downstairs. John puts it on mute as he comes up the stairs.

"Where is it now?" he asks as dad comes through the door, taking his coat off.

"Where no-one will look," he replies. Walking across to the window, he picks up his violin and turns his back to us.

"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures."

"Yes, it is." He adjusts the strings slightly and checks it for tuning, all while John watches him carefully. He has the look about him again that he wants to say something but reconsiders. The chimes of Big Ben reach us from the distance. "Happy New Year." Turning around to look back at us, dad picks up his bow and flips it in the air before catching it and begins to play 'Auld Lang Syne'. John turns the sound back on and we continue to watch Doctor Who together.


	32. Chapter Thirty One - Scandal XII

"I'm going down to the lab." I wake with a start and look up at dad's figure in the doorway. "You coming?" I yawn loudly and stretch - I didn't get to bed until three this morning and judging by the winter light coming through the window, it's only 7.20 now.

"I'll catch you up," I say through another yawn. "I'm going to grab a coffee." Dad nods and leaves while I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Did he even go bed last night?

Reluctatly, I roll out of bed a few minutes later and dress.

About an hour later I arrive at Barts having left John behind to do some shopping.

"Sophie!"

"Good morning, Molly," I reply as she catches up.

"I've just made this for Sherlock," she hands me a polysterine cup of coffee. "Did you want anything?"

"Chocolate please, no milk." She nods and returns to the cafeteria while I continue upstairs to the lab.

"You made it then?" Dad asks with a grin as I walk through the door and I give him a glare.

"You realise the average teenage body doesn't function properly until ten and requires at least nine hours of sleep," I tell him, putting his cup beside him and craning my neck over his shoulder to see what he was doing. "I didn't get to bed until three."

"But the key word there is average which you certainly aren't." It's my turn to grin.

"I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment."

Molly comes back in and we return to work. I look at the picture on the screen and recognise it immediately as an X-ray of a phone: mum's phone judging by the size and the...

"Is that-?"

"Detenation devices. Yes," Dad replies, exasperated. There goes my idea of breaking into the hardware.

"Is that a phone?" Molly asks, coming up behind us after putting down my hot chocolate.

"It's a camera phone," Dad corrects.

"And you're X-raying it?"

"Yes, we are."

"Whose phone is it?"

"A woman's."

"Your girlfriend?" I blanch.

"You think she's my girlfriend because I'm X-raying her possessions?" Dad replies quickly, feigning confusion.

Molly laughs nervously. "Well, we all do silly things."

"Yes," Dad says before raising his head in inspirsation and looks round at Molly. "They do, don't they? Very silly." She gives me a confused look but my brain begins to spin as Dad takes the phone out the X-ray machine and holds it up.

"She sent this to our address," I say, reaching the same conclusion as Dad.

"And she loves to play games," he adds.

"She does?" Molly asks and I give her a sympathetic look as Dad brings up the lock screen and types 221B into the phone but looks exasperated and sits down again when it bleeps the warning that we have two attempts left.

"What happened?"

"It's locked us out," I tell her as Dad begins to stare at it. I look at him for a minute before having an idea. "Would you give us a minute?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll be in the morgue if you need me." I nod in acknowledgement and wait until the door shuts.

"I don't know what to do," Dad admits. "Two tries and then -" he gestures with his hands, "kaboom. All gone. Good news is the case is closed, the photos are gone; bad news is we'll never know what else was on there."

"I've got an idea," I tell him, taking the phone from in front of him and slipping it into my coat. "I'll see you later."

"Don't open it," he reminds me. "We need to know what else is on there."

"I know," I nod. "Won't be long."

My destination is only nine minutes drive away, but I fancy some fresh air and exercise so I decide to walk.

I've decided I don't like these types of cases - the ones lasting several months. Nothing exciting has happened for a while so the sooner this one is solved, the better.

Twenty minutes later, I walk into Coutts bank and spot one of the staff talking to a client. He spots me and wraps up the conversation, shaking his client's hand in farewell as I approach him.

"I wonder if I would be able to take out a safety deposit box here for some of my belongings," I say and he nods.

"Of course, ma'am. This way, please." I follow him into a lift and wait as we travel down to safes below the ground floor.

He leads me through a maze of corridors until we reach a guarded door.

"See Miss Holmes and I aren't disturbed," the banker instructs and the guard nods, allowing us entry. The door closes behind us and I turn to face the banker.

"I see you're doing pretty well for yourself, Clint," I say, smiling.

"All thanks to you and your dad." He returns the smile. "Now they actually pay me to go through peoples' belongings and handle money!" I laugh, but return to being serious.

"Security cameras?"

"None in here," he says, also adopting the change in attitude. "Five stationed at various points along the corridor outside, but our clients tend to prefer privacy." I nod in approval and the phone from my pocket.

"Are you able to copy this?" I ask and he takes it carefully, turning it over in his hand to take in the full specifications.

"Easily," he replies. "You still at Baker Street?" I nod and he returns it before explaining his plan. "I get off at five. At seven you'll get a delivery for a Chinese: the original will be in the cotainer labeled 'rice', the copy in the 'noodles'." Clint slips the phone into his pocket and grins. "Great to see you again, Pip." I smile fondly at the old nickname but punch his arm anyway.

"You too, Clint," I reply before heading back through the corridors and outside.


	33. Chapter Thirty Two - Scandal XIII

"I'm surprised you came along," John says several months later as we carry this week's shopping up to the flat. "Usually have to do this by myself."

"I needed practice," I grumble. "The criminal class really need to get their act together - nothing's happened in months. I think my mind is starting to shrivel."

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad for the extra hands." I smile but drop it quickly when I smell the perfume at the kitchen door. I ditch the bags at the door and follow dad over to the window, realising it's now open. We follow our noses along the corridor. I know this smell and my heart begins to race as dad pushes the door to our bedroom open.

"We have a client," dad says to me as we look down at the bed and I can feel my fists clenching.

"What, in your bedroom?!" John replies, hearing it as he places the bags on the kitchen table before walking along the passage and looking over our shoulders. His jaw drops in realisation when he sees mum curled up, fully clothed, in dad's bed. "Ohhh."

"John, you might want to take Sophie out," dad says, his eyes flitting to me before going back to mum.

"I'm fine," I say bitterly.

"Yeah, okay," John replies, taking another look at mum before holding my arm. "Come on Soph," Glaring down at mum, I allow myself to be led away.

I'd had a feeling I'd needed this. I walk into the living room and slide a phone out from each Persian slipper – the position now vacated after dad gave up smoking again. Clint's work is impeccable: true to his word, from the naked eye I'm unable to tell the two phones apart. I slip the phones into my back pockets, making sure the original is in my left pocket and the copy in my right before I take my seat at the table. I hear the shower turn on and a door close before John joins me at the table.

"So, how're we feeling about this?"

"I told you," I reply, faking a smile. "I'm fine."

"I may not be your father, but I can tell when someone is lying." I look up and stare at him for a moment, deliberating my next move.

"In the space of my life, my mum has died twice and come back twice - I'm sensing some parallelism here."

"I should have told you when I found out," John admitted. "I didn't know how you'd react – you were still in a pretty bad state."

"You didn't have to tell me." He raises an eyebrow and I continue. "I may not be Sherlock, but I'm the offspring of him and a woman who's entire life is a lie. I know how to spot a lie." Dad comes back in but barely gives me a glance as he takes a seat opposite John. The shower turns off and we sit in silence for a few minutes until mum walks in wearing dad's dressing gown, her hair loose and damp. Her eyes meet mine and I stare pointedly back, watching as she sits down in dad's seat.

"So who's after you?" dad asks and she draws her eyes away.

"People who want to kill me."

"Who's that?"

"Killers," she replies and I roll my eyes.

"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific," I say, bitterly, but she ignores me and dad continues.

"So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them."

"It worked for a while," mum agreed.

"Except you let John know that you were alive," dad said, almost scolding - as if he'd expected better, "and therefore me."

"I knew you'd keep my secret."

"You couldn't."

"But you did, didn't you?" She looks at me. "By the look on her face you did, anyway. Where's my camera phone?"

"It's not here," John says. "We're not stupid."

"Then what have you done with it?" she asks, looking at dad. "If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."

"If they've been watching me, they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago," I replied and mum looks back to me, her eyes and voice softening.

"I need it."

"Well," I reply, "I can't just go and get it, can I?" John looks at me, inspired.

"Molly Hooper," he says, and I frown in confusion. "She could collect it," he explains, "take it to Bart's; then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back."

"Very good, John," I say, smiling. "Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions."

"Thank you," John smiles back and, honestly believing I don't have it, picks up his own phone and begins to call Molly. "So, why don't ... oh, for ..." He looks up as I stand, putting my hand into my back right pocket and pulling it out. I hold the phone up, taking the time again to take in the extent Clint went to replicate the device.

"So what do you keep on here - in general, I mean?"

"Pictures, information," she lists, "anything I might find useful."

"What, for blackmail?" John asks and mum takes the defensive.

"For protection. I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."

"So how do you acquire this information?" dad asks.

"I told you - I misbehave."

"But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection," dad realises. "You know what it is?

"Yes," she replies, "but I don't understand it."

"I assumed," he replies. "Show me." Mum holds out her hand to me, but I snatch it away.

"The passcode," I say, but she continues to hold out her hand. Realising we are both as stubborn as each other, dad takes the phone off of me from behind and hands it to her. I scowl at him, but withdraw back to my seat. I watch as she activates it, holding it so we can't see the screen or the keypad before she types in four characters. The phone beeps warningly.

"It's not working," she says in surprise and I stand back up, taking the phone back from her.

"No, because it's a duplicate that I had made, into which you've just entered the numbers 1058." I walk back to my chair, taking the real phone from my left pocket before sitting back down. "I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway." I pull the lockscreen back up, confident that we'll finally be able to solve this. I look up smugly as Itype in the numbers, but my face falls when it beeps. One attempt remaining. It's mum's turn to smirk.

"I told you that camera phone was my life," she says, almost disappointed. "I know when it's in my hand."

"Oh, you're rather good," dad replies and she smiles, moving closer.

"You're not so bad." She holds out her hand again and takes the phone from my stunned hands before I notice them staring intently at each other. For a moment I realise what it must be like to still have two parents and smile sadly.

"Hamish," John says, abruptly, spoiling the moment. We turn to look at him and he shrugs.

"John Hamish Watson," he explains. "Just if you were looking for baby names." I laugh and they turn to look at me instead.

"Months of pestering you and you reveal it like that!" I shake my head in exasperation. "I even stole your birth certificate!" Dad frowns in confusion, but mum moves on. I retain amused eye contact with John, who sticks a finger up at me.

"There was a man - an MOD official," mum says, walking away so we can't see the code before scrolling through countless photos. "I knew what he liked." She paused as she found the right one before continuing. "One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it." She hands the phone to dad and I move around so I can see the screen. "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen - can you read it?" The heading reads '007 Confirmed allocation' and below is a string of numbers and letters.

"Yes," he confirms as he zooms in.

"A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it."

"Obviously not," I reply, narrowing my eyes at the screen. "I never saw it

"I must admit he was mostly upside down. Couldn't figure it out." I narrow my eyes at the screen as mum leans over to watch. "What can you do, Mr Holmes? Go on. Impress a girl."

I begin my race to beat dad. Looking at it, it's clear that it's not any kind of code I know so I begin to look at the specifics. There's a few numbers that are the same when the letter is different, suggesting maybe that the numbers are rows and the letters are columns. Where would that be used? Some form of transport, maybe. Planes! That makes sense. The numbers are the same so family and friends can sit together on the flight and there's no letter 'I' because it can be mistaken for a one. The 'code' is referencing certain seats on a plane. But which one?

There aren't many planes that can seat such a large number of people so it must be a Boeing 747, and the fact that there is a number thirteen eliminates the superstitious airlines. Looking back up at the heading, I narrow my eyes at the name of the flight. The format of the three numbers '007' narrows the airline down even further, especially once you consider the connotations of the flight number and the where she got the information from. There's only one airline it could be flying from: Flyaway Airways.

I smile, looking back up from the screen. "There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore," I say quickly, making a last minute judgement based on the last time I looked at the planned flights for the UK. "Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds." I look around at John and mum's blank faces before rolling my eyes and exchanging a look with dad.

"Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look ..." I take the phone from dad and show John the screen. "There's no letter 'I' because it can be mistaken for a '1'; no letters past 'K' - the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place - families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter 'K' or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs." I take a breath before continuing again, quickly. "There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number - zero zero seven - that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport." I stand up so I tower over mum before glaring at her. She looks up at me in admiration but I dismiss it. "Don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing," I tell her. "You haven't earned that privilege." Her eyes drop and I look over to John. "John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I'm right?"

Taken aback, John takes a minute to respond. "Uh-huh. I'm on it, yeah." We watch as he types and a few moments later, he looks up. "Uh, yeah, you're right. Uh, flight double oh seven."

"What did you say?" Dad questions, and John repeats.

"She's right."

"No, no, no," dad dismisses, "after that. What did you say after that?"

"Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven."

Dad repeats the numbers over and over again, trying to make sense of them.

I remember where I heard it. It struck a chord with me at the time because of it's connotations to the secret agent, but now I remember Mycroft received a call about it months ago, right after we visited mum for the first time. But what is he doing with a plane?


	34. Chapter Thirty Three - Scandal XIV

What is the government's plan with a jumbo jet? In the living room, dad is attempting to trigger his memory by occasionally plucking the strings of the violin while I delve into my mind palace. The main one I can think of is suicide missions. Events like 9/11 which the government set up to pin down a chosen enemy come to mind. Is this the same kind of thing? If so, what have seat allocations got to do with it?

"Coventry," dad says eventually, jolting me out of my thought processes. I look across to John's chair and notice mum curled up in it, watching him closely.

"I've never been," she says as if we were in the middle of a conversation, yet the darkness of the room suggests we've been out for some time. "Is it nice?"

"Where's John?" Dad asks, looking around. Sure enough, John is nowhere to be seen.

"He went out a couple of hours ago."

"I was just talking to him," he says in confusion and mum smiles.

"He said you still do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?"

"It's a story," I say, catching onto dad's train of thought, "probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway." I learnt about it in a small project I did after I found out I was related to Alan Turing. He was a brilliant man, in many ways just like dad. He was responsible for building a machine to break the German code and winning the war.

"Have you ever had anyone?" Is mum's response and I look back at her, startled.

"Sorry?"

"And when I say had, I'm being indelicate."

"I don't understand."

"Have you ever had sex?"

"Why would I have sex? I'm not even sixteen yet!"

"Never stopped us, did it darling?" She looks across to dead who frowns so she gets up and walks over before kneeling in front of dad. Mum puts her left hand on top of his right hand and curls her fingers around it. "Let's have dinner."

"Why?" dad responds.

"Might be hungry."

"I'm not."

"Good," mum replies and dad hesitantly sits forward and curls his own fingers around her wrist. I realise this is really not something I want to be watching so go to the window in time to see a car pull up outside.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson calls after a figure steps out of the car and walks up to the door.

"Too late," I hear mum whisper.

"That's not the end of the world," dad corrects, "that's Mrs Hudson." But mum pulls her hand free and stands up, walking away from as Mrs Hudson comes in with Plummer, the man who drove us to the palace the last time.

"Sherlock, this man was at the door," Mrs Hudson explains. "Is the bell still not working?" She turns to Plummer and gestures to dad. "He shot it."

"Have you come to take us away again?" dad asks, tetchilly.

"Yes, Mr Holmes," Plummer responds.

"Well, we decline." Plummer reaches into his jacket pocket and passes an envelope over.

"I don't think you do." Dad snatches the envelope and opens it. Inside is a pair of Business Class boarding passes for Flyaway Airways in our names for flight number 007 to Baltimore, scheduled to leave at 18.30. I exchange a look with dad, who closes the envelope up once more and bites his lip.

There's two possible explanations for receiving these tickets. The first is that Mycroft intended us to overhear his conversation on the phone because he had always planned for us to get on the plane, but that would involve the idea of destiny, which neither me or dad are comfortable with. The second is a more likely explanation. Mum gave us the information to decode on the behalf of somebody else and once we had solved it, she messaged the details over to whoever she's working for - I'm assuming Moriarty - and we've just foiled one of the UK's largest defence programmes in the last fifty years. Neither option is preferable.

Giving mum little more than a glance, dad and I put our coats on and follow Plummer downstairs and into the back of the car waiting outside.

"There's going to be a bomb on a passenger jet," dad explains once we sit down and pulls the tickets out again, turning them around in his hand as he speaks. "The British and American governments know about it but rather than expose the source of that information they're going to let it happen. The plane will blow up. Coventry all over again. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new." Neither Plummer nor the driver respond, so we spend the rest of the 51 minute journey in silence.

Eventually we pull into the airport and drive up to the Jumbo Jet parked in the hangars. Dad and I slide out and stride across to the steps leading up to the entry door. At the foot of them, however, stands Neilson.

"Well, you're lookin' all better," dad says casually in a deliberately fake American accent. "How ya feelin'?"

"Like putting a bullet in your brain," he pauses for a moment, before emphasising the "sir." Dad lets out a snigger, but I can't help but feel a little insecure about how the next few hours will play out. We've just pissed off two of the biggest counties ... or put correctly, I have. It was me who showed my absolute ignorance by falling for the Happy Family's ideal again, and in doing so have betrayed both the security of the country and the memory of my great uncle. "They'd pin a medal on me if I did ..." We stop walking up the steps as Neilson finishes his insincere "sir."

Dad half-turns back towards him l, but I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," I say, and after a moment's hesitation, we continue up the steps.

"Let me handle this," dad instructs before we reach the top.

"It's not your mess to get out of," I argue, but he sends me a glare and I reluctantly nod.

Dad steps inside first and pulls back the curtain obscuring the passenger seating and I follow him down the aisle. The lighting is low and it's hard to make out, but it looks like everyone on-board is asleep. Dad frowns and examines the closest passenger and I do the same with one further up the aisle. Turning on the overhead light, I illuminate the faces of a young girl and her mother, both with their eyes closed.

"Oh my God," I breathe, stepping back and looking around. Their faces are grey and their skin loose. Although they don't show any signs of decomposition, it's clear they've been dead for quite some time.

"The Coventry conundrum," a voice says from the other end of the aisle and the curtain moves to reveal Mycroft standing behind. He walks forward into the cabin. "What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead."

"The plane blows up mid-air," dad explains. "Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies."

"Neat, don't you think?" Mycroft asks, but I smile humourlessly. "You've been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages - or were you too bored to notice the pattern?" I cast my mind back to the two little girls asking about their dead grandfather in our flat several months ago and to the guy who suspected he wasn't given the remains of his dead aunt. We are confronted by so many deaths that we don't notice the connections between them all. "We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back," Mycroft continues, "though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight." I remember the unsolved case John insisted he write up about the dead man in the boot of the car with all the paperwork to say he was on a plane. "But that's the deceased for you - late, in every sense of the word."

"How's the plane going to fly if everyone is dead?" I ask.

"Unmanned aircraft," dad answers immediately. "Hardly new."

"It doesn't fly," Mycroft corrects, dropping his quiet tone and becoming irate. "It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished."

"Your MOD man," dad says and I try to maintain my posture to not give anything away.

"That's all it takes: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special," Mycroft says and my hairs bristle, but dad simply quirks an eyebrow.

"Hmm," he says nonchalantly. "You should screen your defence people more carefully."

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock," he shouts furiously. "I'm talking about you." He slams the tip of his umbrella down onto the floor. "The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle ... " His voice drops to a whisper as he twirls his umbrella in the air, "... and watch him dance."

I can't stand it any longer. I am not going to let dad be accused for this. It was my mistake.

"I think the correct pronoun would be 'she'." I say, stepping from behind dad to stand in front. "It was me. I decoded the message."

"Don't be absurd," dad says.

"Absurd?" I retort, but before I can continue, Mycroft interrupts.

"How quickly did you decipher that email for her?" he asks me, his tone now showing more disappointment than I've ever experienced from him. "Was it the full minute, or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds." I turn to look back the way we entered and see mum. Her hair is done much the same as when we first entered her house in Belgravia, but she wears a long black dress and is expertly made-up.

"I drove you into her path," he says ruefully to me before pausing for a moment and lowering his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." My hand starts to shake, but I clench it shut as mum walks towards us.

"Mr Holmes," she says, "I think we need to talk."

"So do I," dad agrees. "There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on."

"Not you, Junior," she says, walking past us and heading towards Mycroft. "You're done now." Dad looks momentarily startled but I was expecting it. There was no way tonight was going to end well. Mum holds her phone up to show Mycroft the screen. "There's more ... loads more," she tells him. "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me - unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little niece." Mycroft drops his gaze and turns his head away. Dad takes my hand from behind and gives it a small squeeze.

"Well, Miss Adler," Mycroft says at last, "I see you have given me no choice but to concede. We'll carry this over to my office, if you don't mind." He looks around the plane. "There's something that needs to be put to rest."


	35. Chapter Thirty Four - Scandal XV

We follow them over to Mycroft's house for the negotiations. He sits with Mumat the table while dad and I sit opposite each other in armchairs by the fire, dad's back turned to the table.

"We have people who can get into this," Mycroft says at last, pointing down at the phone placed in the middle of the table.

"I tested that theory for you," mum replies. "I let my daughter try it for six months." I close my eyes briefly and grimace. "Sophia, dear, tell him what you found when you X-rayed my camera phone."

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing," I explain, flatly, "I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive." I watch as Mycroft lowers his head in exasperation before continuing. "Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive."

"Explosive," mum confirms, looking to Mycroft."It's more me."

Mycroft lifts his head and looks at mum again. "Some data is always recoverable."

"Take that risk?"

"You have a passcode to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you."

"Sherlock?"

"There will be two passcodes: one to open the phone, one to burn the drive," dad explains. "Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there will be no point in a second attempt."

"He's good, isn't he?" Mum smiles. "I should have kept him on a leash – in fact, Imight." She gazes intensely over at him, but dad doesn't turn around.

"We destroy this, then," Mycroft settles."No-onehas the information."

"Fine," mum agrees. "Good idea ... unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

"Are there?"

"Telling you would be playing fair," she replies. "I'm not playing any more." Mum reaches into her handbag and takes out an envelope which she pushes across to Mycroft. "A list of my requests," she says, glancing towards me, and I glare back at her, "and some ideas about my protection once they're granted." He takes the sheet of paper from inside the envelope and unfolds it. "I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation – but then I'd be lying." Mycroft raises his eyebrows in amazement and he reads through her demands. "I imagine you'd like to sleep on it."

"Thank you," he replies, not taking his eyes off the paper as he reads. "Yes."

"Too bad." Dad smirks in admiration. "Off you pop and talk to people."

"You've been very ... thorough," Mycroft concludes. "I wish our lot were half as good as you."

"I can't take all the credit," mum admits. "Had a bit of help." She looks across to us. "Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love." The betrayal is clear as dad opens his eyes. So that's where she's been all this time, working as a lapdog for Moriarty, no doubt feeding him information on us.

"Yes," Mycroft says, "he's been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention which I'm sure can be arranged." Mum stands up and walks round the table to sit on the table edge, closer to Mycroft.

"I had all this stuff," she explains, "never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. D'you know what he calls you?" She asks, looking at Mycroft before speaking softly. "The Ice Man," she looks across at dad before continuing, "and the Virgin." Virgin? That must mean he still doesn't know about me. Despite everything, mum has still tried to protect me. But that also means she hasn't been giving him information, she's still working to protect us. "Didn't even ask for anything," she continues. "I think he just likes to cause trouble. Nowthat'smy kind of man." Dad sighs softly from his seat, his eyes closed. It's clear he's only half listening, he's trying to figure something out.

"And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees," Mycroft says and dad's eyes snap open again as Mycroft stands. "Nicely played." He turns away to start sorting her demands and mum stands, confident she has won.

"No," dad says and they both turn to look at him. I frown pointedly but he doesn't respond.

"Sorry?" Mum asks, and dad turns his head towards them, facing them at last.

"I said no," dad repeats. "Very very close, but no." He stands and starts to walk towards her, but I remain seated, watching it play out. "You got carried away," he explains. "The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

"No such thing as too much," mum argues as dad walks closer.

"Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine," he agrees, "craving the distraction of the game – I sympathise entirely – but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

"Sentiment?" Mum repeats. "What are you talking about?"

"You," dad answers simply.

"Oh dear God," she replies, smiling calmly. "Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" Dad steps closer to her and my brain catches up. Of course!

"No," he replies softly and reaches out, slowly wrapping his fingers around her wrist, then leans forward so his mouth is close to her ear. "Because I took your pulse." I smile at the bittersweet moment. Despite all that we've been through and after all the time we've spent apart, they still love each other. But at the same time, as soon as dad types in the passcode she's going to be ripped from our lives again. This time, for good. "Elevated," dad continues, "your pupils dilated." He releases her hand and leans to pick up the phone. "I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me," dad says, returning my smile before continuing to talk to mum, "but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive. When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe – your measurements; but this, this is far more intimate." He turns the screen on, bring up the lock screen. "This is your heart," he continues as he starts punching in the letters, "and you shouldneverlet it rule your head." Mum's eyes are beginning to betray her panic as dad punches in another letter, realising he's solved it. "You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for, but you just couldn't resist it, could you?" Her breathing becomes heavier and dad smiles triumphantly. "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. "Thankyou for the final proof." Before dad can enter in the final letter, mum seizes his hand and gazes intensely up at him.

"Everything I said," she says softly, "it's not real.I was just playing the game."

"I know," dad replies, dropping to a whisper as he pulls his hand free and types the final character. "And this is just losing." He turns the phone towards her and shows her the screen. Tears start to spill from her eyes as she reads the screen. A play on words - a brilliant one. 'I am SHER Locked'. Brilliant!

Dad holds the phone out to Mycroft as the it unlocks and throws up the menu.

"There you are, brother," he says, his eyes still fixed on mum. "I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience we may have caused you tonight."

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft replies, taking the phone. I stand up and follow dad towards the door.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up," dad says, "otherwise let her go. I doubt she'll survive long without her protection." Mum stares after us, her eyes wide with dread.

"Are you expecting me to beg?"

"Yes," dad replies calmly, stopping near the door and turning to watch. She stares at him in anguish for a moment before realising she has no choice.

"Please," she begs. "You're right. I won't even last six months."

"Sorry about dinner," dad says and turns and walks through the door.

"Sophia," she tries, and I turn around. "Leave us a moment," she says to Mycroft. He looks to me for a response and I nod. He returns it and leaves through the door behind me, closing it as he goes. "Come here," she says to me after a moment. Hesitant, I pause before stepping forward. "Did I tell you how proud I am of you?" Mum questions, smiling at me, tears now making lines in her makeup as they fall free. I shake my head. "I never meant for you to grow up this way. I was supposed to always be there for you and I wasn't. I don't expect you to forgive me for that but please," she steps forward, closing the gap between us, "remember you will always be my little girl. My strong, beautiful, intelligent little girl. I need you to remember this for me." She wipes a tear from her eye and looks me in the eye. "I can't see how I will get onto a witness protection scheme. If I'm lucky, I might be able to spare myself a couple of months before they catch up with me. But they will catch up with me. I'm sorry, Sophia, but this is goodbye." She chokes out the last sentence and I wrap my arms around her, nestling my head on her shoulder. Tears have begun to fall from my eyes now, and they land on her dress. She squeezes me tightly as she wraps her arms around my back and we remain in that position for a couple minutes before she pulls away from me, her mascara and eyeliner smudged as she looks back up at me. "I love you, darling," she says and I smile sadly back at her.

"I love you too, mum," I sob. She gives me one last hug before I turn and head outside. As the door closes behind me, I wipe away my tears before Mycroft rounds the corner. "She's all yours," I say, steadying my voice. He studies me for a second before nodding and passing by me. I close my eyes and gather myself before heading outside to find dad.


	36. Chapter Thirty Five - Scandal XVI

A few months later, I sit with dad at the kitchen table looking through a case file while he examines some chemicals from the crime scene through his microscope. The heavy rain outside is the only sound for hours until John returns home and his footsteps hit the stairs hard, suggesting he's running up them. He has news.

"Clearly you've got news," dad says, not looking up from his work as John stops in the doorway. "If it's about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring."

"Hi," John says, taking a couple steps into the kitchen. "Er, no, it's, um. It's about Irene Adler." I look up, my face emotionless as I try to read him. He's carrying an evidence bag with her documents inside so it must have happened. They've caught up with her at last.

"Oh?" dad questions, also raising his head. "Something happened? Has she come back?"

"No, she's, er ..." he hesitates for a moment and I frown, sensing a lie coming. "I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs. He had to take a call."

"Is she back in London?" dad asks, standing up and walking around the table towards John.

"No. She's, er ..." he pauses again and it's clear he's contemplating whether or not to tell us she's dead. Eventually, he drags in a sharp breath and raises his eyes to dad's. "She's in America."

"America?" I repeat, in faked confusion. I know the truth.

"Mmm-hmm," John agrees. "Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but, er, well, you know."

"I know what?"

"Well, you won't be able to see her again." I nod as dad returns back to his seat at the table.

"I know," I return, solemnly. "We said our goodbyes. At least this time I get closure." John returns my nod and smiles sadly.

"Is that her file?" dad asks.

"Yes," John admits. "I was just gonna take it back to Mycroft." He holds the folder out to us. "Do either of you want to ...?" He trails off as I shake my head and dad says no before returning to his work.

"Listen, actually ..." John says after a moment of silence, but dad interrupts.

"Oh, but I will have the camera phone, though." He holds his hand out to John without raising his head from his work.

"There's nothing on it any more," John informs him. "It's been stripped."

"I know, but I ..." he pauses for a long moment and I raise my head to look at him. "I'll still have it."

"I've gotta give this back to Mycroft," John argues. "You can't keep it." But dad's hand is still extended. "Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft. It's the government's now. I couldn't even give ... "

"Please," dad tries and reaches a little further. John looks at him for a moment as he considers what do do, then finally he reaches into the wallet and lays the phone gently on dad's hand. He closes his fingers around it and puts the phone in his trouser pocket before returning to his work. "Thank you."

"Well," John says, raising the wallet. "I'd better take this back."

"Yes," dad agrees. I return to my reading but notice John hesitating on the landing.

"Did she ever text you again," he asks, coming back into the kitchen, "after ... all that?"

"Once, a few months ago."

"What did she say?"

"'Goodbye, Mr Holmes,'" he says and I close my eyes, unnoticed by them. So that would have been her final text before they ... got her.

John nods, thoughtfully, and it's clear he's thinking of what to say. Eventually, he turns and heads off down the stairs. As soon as he's out of sight, dad raises his head and gazes across the room for a moment before reaching into his own pocket and pulling out his own phone. I watch as he calls up his saved messages, but as he starts to scroll down their conversation, he stands up and walks into the living room so I can't see the messages they exchanged. He finishes reading them as he reaches the window and lifts his eyes to look out at the rain. He starts to chuckle and I frown, completely at a loss as he takes mum's phone from his pocket and tosses it into the air before catching it again.

"The Woman," he says fondly to himself as he opens the top drawer of the cabinet and puts the phone inside. "The Woman," he repeats as he walks away. I open my mouth to question him but he walks past me and into his room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.


	37. Epilogue

Dad bursts through the door first and stops just inside the room. I follow in behind him, looking indignantly down at my ruined blouse as dad slams the bloody harpoon on the floor. John looks around, his eyes widening as he takes in our appearances. Dad is pretty much covered from head to foot in the blood, staining his shirt and trousers and covering his face. I have a small spattering on my shirt, but I think my face is clean.

"Well, that was tedious," dad says, breathing heavily.

"You went on the Tube like that?!" John questions in disbelief and I roll my eyes as I lift my chifon blouse over my head and toss it onto the sofa. Mrs Hudson can wash it later.

"None of the cabs would take us," I say in irritation before heading into the bedroom to get changed.

When I come back out, dad is pacing in the living room having cleaned himself up and changing into a spare set of clothes in the other room. John sits in his seat, flicking through a newspaper.

"Nothing?" I ask, sitting down in dad's seat.

"Military coup in Uganda," John suggests.

"Hmm." I shake my head in disagreement. John continues flicking through when he comes across something which makes him chuckle. "What?"

"Another photo of you with the, er ..." he points to a photograph of us wearing the hats and dad makes a disgusted sound so John moves onto another newspaper. "Oh, um, Cabinet reshuffle."

"Nothing of importance?" dad asks, furiously, slamming the end of the harpoon on the ground and roars in rage. He's been a bit restless recently. John persuaded him to go cold turkey on the cigarettes and he isn't taking it well. "Oh, God!" he moans and looks intensely round at John. "John, I need some.Getme some."

"No," he replies calmly.

"Get me some."

"No," John says more firmly and points at him. "Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what." Irritated, dad leans the harpoon against the dining table. I consider moving it out of harms way but realise that by doing so I will put myself in harms way so just leave it. "Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember?" John reminds him. "No-one within a two mile radius'll sell you any."

"Stupid idea," dad declares. "Whose idea was that?" I snort.

"Yours?" Dad ignores me and looks towards the door.

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouts and begins hurling paperwork off the table, desperately searching for the packs we hid.

"Look, Sherlock," John tries, "you're doing really well. Don't give up now."

"Tell me where they are," he says frantically, still pulling papers off. "Please. Tell me." John remains silent so dad straightens up and puts on his most appealing puppy-dog eyes. "Please."

"Can't help, sorry."

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," he tries.

"He's not going to fall for that one again!" I laugh and John chuckles.

"Oh, it was worth a try," dad says, exasperated. He looks round the room and hurls himself onto the floor in front if the fireplace in inspiration. He digs out his Venisian slipper from beneath a pile of papers as Mrs Hudson enters.

"Ooh-ooh!" she announces.

"My secret supply," he says, still rummaging around by the fire. "What have you done with my secret supply?"

"Eh?" she replies in confusion.

"Cigarettes!" dad exclaims. "What have you done with them? Where are they?"

"You know you never let me touch your things!" Mrs Hudson looks around at the mess and tuts. "Ooh, chance would be a fine thing." Dad stands up and faces her.

"I thought you weren'tmy housekeeper."

"I'm not," she confirms and dad makes a frustrated sound, walks over to the harpoon and picks it up again. John mimes the suggestion that she makes dad some tea and she looks round at him. "How about a nice cuppa," she suggests, "and perhaps you could put away your harpoon."

"I need somethingstrongerthan tea," he argues. "Seven percentstronger." He turns on Mrs Hudson and aims the harpoon at her. She flinches. "You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again." I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat.

"Pardon?" She asks in indignation. Dad points to her dress with the tip of the harpoon.

"Sandwich shop. That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."

"Sherlock ..." John warns, but dad continues.

"Thumbnail." He raises the harpoon to point at her nail. "Tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know wherethatleads, don't we?" He sniffs deeply and lowers the harpoon. "Mmm," dad says. "'Kasbah Nights.' Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up."

"Please," Mrs Hudson says, exasperated.

"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncasterthat nobody knows about."

"Sherlock!" John tries again, angrily.

"Well, nobody except me."

"And me," I announce, standing up and moving round to comfort her. "But I don't go around upsetting our landlady with it."

"I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't," she cries, storming out the flat and slamming the living room door as she goes. Dad leaps over the back of his chair from behind it and perches on it, wrapping his arms around his knees like a petulant child. John slams his newspaper down.

"What the bloody hell was all that about?"

"You don't understand," dad replies, rocking backward and forwards.

"Go after her and apologise," John orders, sternly. Dad stares at him.

"Apologise?" he repeats.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh, John," dad sighs. "I envy you so much."John hesitates and looks momentarily up at me, considering whether he should rise to the bait.

"You envy me?"

"Your mind," dad explains, "it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad." He raises his voice."I need a case!"

"You've just solved one!" John cries, equally as loud. "By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!" Dad makes an exasperated noise and jumps up, repositioning himself into a sitting position.

"That was this morning!" He starts drumming his fingers on the arms if the chair and stomps his feet on the floor. "When's the next one?"

"Nothing on the website?" I question and dad gets up and collects the laptop from the table and hands it to me before stomping over to the window and narrating the message.

"'Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?'"

"Yes, I can read thank you," I say, skipping through it myself.

"Bluebell?" John questions.

"A rabbit, John!" Dad answers in irritation.

"Oh."

"Ah, but there's more!" dad continues, sarcastically. "Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous, 'like a fairy' according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry ..." He stops and his eyes narrow, his expression becoming more intense. "Ah! What am I saying?" he questions, perking up. "This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

"Are you serious?" I ask, eyebrows raised as I close the laptop down and carry it back over to the table.

"It's this, or Cluedo."

"Ah, no!" John says quickly. "We areneverplaying that again!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why."

"Well, it was the only possible solution," dad protests.

"It's not in the rules."

"Then the rules are wrong!" he replies, furiously. As he finishes, the doorbell rings. John thoughtfully holds up a finger as dad looks towards the sound.

"Single ring," John says.

"Maximum pressure just under the half second," dad continues.

We look at each other before saying simultaneously, "Client."


End file.
